


Won't Be Our End

by SouthernLynxx



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Ableist Language, Additional tags will be added, Amputation, Animal Death, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Derogatory Language, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Canon Compliant, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Recovery, References to Depression, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tags Contain Spoilers, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernLynxx/pseuds/SouthernLynxx
Summary: “He is hurt,” the daughter cuts in, almost a double of her mother now that John takes a moment to look at her proper. There’s something challenging in her eye as she continues. “My father took him to the doctor, in St Denis.”“Ich wünschte, ich hätte mehr tun können…” Andreas adds regretfully, and both Charles and John look to the daughter for further explanation.The girl bites her lip, eyes downcast as she says: “It was very infected.”
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 66
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am very excited to be posting this fic - it's the longest fic I have attempted in many _many_ years and damn it all I am going to see this through! With that in mind, I'm not very experienced with long/slow burn fics, so any feedback along the way, or suggestions for missed tags/warnings would be a fantastic help :)
> 
> Also many thanks to [@Dumbcowboahs](https://dumbcowboahs.tumblr.com/) for keeping me in check and making sure I had buffer chapters written before posting ( ˘ ³˘)♥

It takes forty minutes of riding to escape the acrid smell of smog and pollution that swathes Annesburg like a cloak.

It’s barely a fraction the size of St Denis, but the mining town is inarguably choked by the very industrialisation that keeps it staggering forward. A slow march towards abandonment once it’s resources are hollowed out from beneath it and the people are forced elsewhere to find a new means of survival.

Arthur is less than fond of the place.

It was a tip-off about a stagecoach that had brought him this far north in the first place, figuring if he were to cause any trouble, the further away from the gang in the south the better. Especially the way their luck had been of late. It was also an opportunity to hunt game he was far more familiar with — rather than tempt the jaws of a gator, he could return with a new elk hide and a good supply of meat on top of his take from the stage.

The down side is the incessant drone of heavy machinery and the black smoke drifting thick and unwelcome into the trees. It only serves to push the wildlife deeper into the hills, and makes the quick hunt he’d sought push too close to sundown for his liking.

He rides through Roanoke Ridge on the strong rolling gait of his shire, the reins held loose in one hand and his rifle ready in the other. Muttering under his breath, he scans the trees for signs of anything larger than a fox, conscious of the golden light taking on a purple hue with the oncoming dusk.

“Whoa boy,” he rumbles, bringing Fen to a stop with the slightest pressure on the reins. The stallion idles beneath him with little more than a deep whuff, and Arthur turns his attention to the Kamassa River flowing lazily to his left through a spattering of pines. The rich glint of the receding golden hour catches on the surface, sparkling warm and bright like fool’s gold, but it belies the crisp evening chill in the air and the long shadows cast over the lowlands by the rugged terrain. They would reach Arthur on the higher ground soon enough.

He blows out an annoyed breath. The thought of returning to Annesburg empty-handed is less than ideal, but the prospect of camping alone in Murfree territory is even more so, and he was already facing a ride back in the dark — he wouldn’t risk a lantern.

Arthur scowls, decision made as he turns Fen around on the path and holsters his rifle in its boot. He hasn’t gone ten feet when a high-pitched scream and the shrill whinny of horses cuts through the trees, startling a flock of ducks into clamorous flight from the riverbank. His head snaps around, searching for any immediate threat in the darkening forest. It hadn’t come from nearby, but…

Two gunshots echo in quick succession.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur hesitates for only a moment before he spurs Fen back around and thunders north along the river. With the asperous stone ridge of Roanoke Valley looming over him, they plunge into the shallowest part of the river, the cold spray soaking his jeans and jacket as they cross. Hauling them up the steep incline on the other side, the stallion is just rounding the outcrop at the top of the path when the crack of a third bullet rips through the air. Another scream, a piercing wail of anguish and terror, quickly follows the dying reverberations of what had no doubt been a killing shot. Arthur folds himself further over Fen’s neck and pushes the dark beast onwards with urgency. “C’mon boy, we gotta get there, c’mon now,” he encourages as they barrel down the path, a light rain beginning to fall. The forest whips past in a blur of adumbration, but there’s a light up ahead, barely glimpsed through the trees.

The scene that greets him as they round the bend isn’t far from what Arthur had been expecting — from the wagon sitting on the overgrown verge where it had been run off the road, to the faintly swinging lantern casting light over the two cart horses slumped over dead in their harnesses. The body of a man, executed with a single bullet to the head, lies no more than several feet away, blood pooling out in a steadily growing puddle of inky black. In the middle of the road, dressed in little more than filthy overalls, stand the ones responsible.

At Arthur’s shout, his pistol already drawn, Fen charges forward. He plants two bullets into the nearest Murfree — a fine red mist exploding from the entry points in the man’s forehead and chest as the body drops lifelessly to the floor. The second man, who had been advancing on the woman huddled and weeping against the wagon, turns quickly, but is too slow to raise his weapon. Arthur’s bullet through his throat lays him to rest with a wet, dribbling gurgle. With the men slain in little more than a minute, Arthur draws up alongside the wagon, Fen tossing his head with an explosive breath in response to the brief commotion.

“Are you ok, ma’am?” Arthur asks, dropping down from the shire and holstering his pistol. The woman’s sobs echo in the unearthly silence that follows the deafening blast of gunshots, and as Arthur tries to inch closer, she pushes herself flat against the wheel of the wagon, her shoes churning up the damply packed dirt beneath her.

“P-please, don’t hurt me. P-Please. Th-they killed- _they killed J-James!”_

Arthur’s lips twist into a frown, a feeling of pity swelling in his breast. “Come now, ma’am, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I need you to calm down,” he soothes, voice low and disarming. “They ain’t gonna do you no more harm, I promise you.”

Arthur would never figure himself anyone’s first choice to comfort lone, traumatised women, but whether it’s his tone or the words themselves, the woman finally looks up at him. She’s young and well spoken, not local by Arthur’s guess, with long dark hair falling around her shoulders and tears streaking down her pale, blood-spattered cheeks.

“What’s your name, miss?” he presses just as gently, lowering himself onto one knee so he no longer towered over her.

“Ch-Charlotte,” she manages between her ever quieting sobs.

“Well, Charlotte, my name’s Arthur. I think it’s best we get you home safe now,” he coaxes, offering her his hand. Charlotte stares at him through wide hazel eyes, her sobs diminished to heavy breaths and sniffles. Hesitantly, she reaches out and places her slighter hand in his, allowing him to help her to her feet. “Is there somewhere I can take yo-”

A bullet splinters the side of the wagon near his shoulder, causing Charlotte to scream in fright. “Quick, behind the wagon!” Arthur barks, giving her a forceful push as he turns with his pistol pointed. Fen has since fled the road, leaving Arthur a clear shot of the Murfree bounding through the bushes with a holler. He floors the man with two shots, but is less prepared for the fourth who appears from behind a broad hickory, shotgun raised. Arthur dives behind the wagon just as the shotgun blows a sizable hole into the wood, raining splinters down on top of him.

“Goddamn inbred bastards,” he growls, ducking a second shot that whistles overhead. He breathes once, twice, then steps out and takes aim. His first shot strikes the Murfree’s shoulder, tearing a wounded cry from the man. His second shot silences him.

Another unnatural quiet seeps into the forest. Arthur remains crouched, listening intently for anything other than the patter of rain and Charlotte’s muffled cries. Stepping out from behind the wagon, finger poised on the trigger, he quickly checks the chamber of his pistol — one bullet left. The rustle of undergrowth has him jamming the chamber closed and scouring the surrounding area with a keen focus. Being in the light makes him tense, makes him too easy to spot while he struggles to differentiate the shadows beyond the reach of the lantern.

Moving around the front of the wagon, skirting the horses, Arthur relaxes as he finds Charlotte huddled on the other side. “Miss, we have to get mov-”

“Look out!”

Arthur grunts and staggers as a searing pain explodes in his temple, his vision briefly blurring and spotting around the edges. His pistol drops and knocks off his boot as he lurches out of reach of a second strike, turning to see a fifth Murfree levelling his shotgun. Indifferent to the blood dripping into his eye from the blow, Arthur lunges beneath the barrel of the gun with a shout, shouldering the man in the stomach and sending them both to the ground. He grapples for the gun which slips from their wet hands, but recoils when an elbow comes down hard on the muscle between his neck and shoulder, wrenching a pained noise from Arthur’s throat.

He’s able to land several heavy punches to his assailant’s sides before they kick apart and he’s fumbling on his knees for the shotgun again, only to feel his stomach clench when the weapon is pulled harshly against his throat. Fingers clawing desperately at the long barrel of the gun, Arthur tries to buck free from where’s pinned against the Murfree’s chest, gasping for air as the cold bite of metal threatens to crush his windpipe before he has the chance to suffocate. His hands drop to the ground, scrabbling through the grass and leaf litter for his fallen pistol. Then - there! His fingertips skim the familiar cherrywood grip just as the Murfree yanks him to his feet, his back forced into a painful arch where the rifle keeps him pinned by the neck. Stabbing pains start to shoot through his chest at the lack of air, spots creeping into his vision. With a last desperate fumble, Arthur reaches up and blindly points the barrel of his retrieved pistol over his shoulder.

“Aw shi-”

He fires, but not before the man shoves him away in a bid to dodge Arthur’s final bullet. He staggers forward, head ringing with the roar of the gun so close to his ear. Unsteadily he turns, able to watch the Murfree drop to his knees — eye-socket blown wide open — just before his foot slips off the edge of the ridge.

In his next breath he’s falling, tumbling down the steep drop to the riverbank below, skin grazed away by the stone cliff face until he finally hits the pebbled shore. He doesn’t even feel the impact with the ground, because with a grating metallic ‘ _clank’_ his arm is engulfed in a pain so sudden and excruciating that wipes every other sensation from his mind. It’s an agony unlike Arthur has ever known, and his scream echoes unfettered into the night sky.

Consciousness must come and go, because one minute he’s yelling at the storm clouds overhead and the next Charlotte is leaning over him, only identifiable by her black hair and pale skin and shaking voice as everything blurs and dips in and out of blackness. The almost tranquil sounds of the forest — the rain against the stones, the breeze amongst the leaves, the river mumbling mere feet away — are consumed by the fierce roar in his ears, and only snatches of Charlotte’s hysterical pleas get through the noise.

“Arthur! Arthu—”

“I— s —ry”

“Can’ —et yo —fre”

“—eed help.”

He’s only vaguely aware of the dirt and stones skittering down the embankment as Charlotte clambers back up to the road. In his last moments of clarity, Arthur doesn’t know if she’ll ever come back, but he thinks she’d be a fool if she did.

He closes his eyes, and doesn’t wake back up.

* * *

He must have truly made it to Hell, in the end. That, or eternal damnation is the only explanation a mind steeped in as much misery and regret as his own can conjure to rationalise its new harrowing existence. The fevered heat which leaves his blood boiling in his skin. The agony which razes his body like an open flame set against his flesh, left to burn and blister.

It’s a pain so fierce it might have had him sobbing and pleading on his knees for relief had he been able.

All the while, his suffering is accompanied by the unintelligible murmurs of words he can’t understand, but they sound neither harsh nor mocking. Amidst the sensation of being callously rocked as if adrift in a storm, glimpses of golden light infiltrate the darkness. A little defiant voice whispers in the dark of his mind, that Hell would have no such comforts.

It’s a mere sliver of peace at best, but between each glint of light in the dark, he counts his breaths until the next.

* * *

The atmosphere at Clemen’s Point has been tense for days, and it shows no sign of easing.

Adjusting his repeater against his shoulder, John stares out into the trees, his muscles locked with a tension that can barely contain the unrest simmering beneath.

Arthur was often gone for days at a time, sometimes a week or more, and over the years they had learnt not to fuss — he always found his way home in the end, waving their relief away with an amused, somewhat befuddled smile as he did so. But they still worried. Even a hushed, incongruous part of John stewed until Arthur inevitably came riding back into camp — scuffed and probably bleeding, but alive and laden with stories and goods to disburse around the campfire.

No one’s said it, but they know this time will be different.

With some reluctance, John looks over his shoulder at the motley herd grazing on the outskirts of the camp. Amongst the spotted flanks and various shades of bay, the towering black shire is easy to spot.

The horse was surly, but so steadfast and loyal that John had witnessed him run unflinching towards open gunfire when Arthur had called for him as a last resort. So John doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the cold heavy dread that dropped into his stomach when the stallion had come barreling, riderless, back into camp. His raven coat wet with sweat and lather, eyes white and rolling as he reared and brayed, tossing his great head in a way they’d never seen before. It took four of them to rein him in, until Charles had managed to bring the stallion’s head down long enough to soothe him. Fen wasn’t hurt from what they’d been able to tell. He was coated up to his chest in filth and he trembled with exhaustion, but there was no blood, no wounds, and his saddlebags — once John had bribed him into letting them look — still contained various trinkets and a stack of bills from what must have been Arthur’s last take.

But there was no sign of Arthur.

Fen had rested for all of twenty minutes before John and Charles had saddled up and followed him for three days to Roanoke Ridge. John couldn’t help but admire the connection Arthur must have had with the animal for it to do that.

He physically recoils at his own errant thought. Arthur wasn’t _dead_. He wasn-

Fen lifts his head with a timbrous whicker, ears pricked forward as he looks straight past John to the forested track out of camp. John turns, taking the forewarning for what it is, and readies his repeater.

It’s a few more minutes until John hears what Fen had, but it becomes apparent soon enough when two cart horses round the bend, hauling an unfamiliar covered wagon. A man and woman sit up front with a young child, and John tries not to wince at the pang of disappointment.

He shoves the feeling aside and lifts his weapon.

“Hey! You better turn back ‘round, friend, you ain’t s’posed to be here,” he calls before the wagon can come too close. At the sight of his gun the man pulls the horses to an immediate stop, and the woman clutches the young boy to her side, her knuckles pale where she grips his shoulder. She’s fair skinned and fair haired, blonde like her son, and despite her distress at the end of his repeater, she sits stiff and protective, even as her eyes dart between him and the man beside her.

“Bitte, mein Name ist Andreas.”

John frowns at the unfamiliar language, dark eyes raking over the man who didn’t seem to have any weapons within reach. He’s an older, unremarkable man, with receding brown hair, an overgrown moustache and goatee, and a worn grey suit that had seen many days of travel. John keeps the barrel level with the man’s chest.

“Meine Familie und ich meinen keinen Schaden. Wir bringen Arthur Morgan nach Hause.”

John perks up. Whatever the man is saying is lost on John, but he understands the only thing that matters. His gun lowers just a fraction.

“I don’t know what your sayin’, buddy, but Arthur Morgan ain’t been here in a while. You seen him?”

“Ja! -Yes!” the man corrects with obvious relief. The nose of John’s repeater had dipped lower in his distraction, but as the man, Andreas, starts to climb down from the wagon, he jerks it back up to point as his chest, wariness prickling up his spine.

“Hold on there. Don’t go makin’ no sudden moves. Jus’ tell me ‘bout my friend,” he orders, taking his eyes off the man only briefly to glance over his shoulder. Several gang members had arrived and fanned out around him, no doubt attracted by John’s shouting. In response the woman tucks her son’s face into her chest, eyes looking a touch more fearful in the face of a band of armed, grisled-looking outlaws.

“Wait.”

To John’s surprise, Charles comes up beside him, his gun held loosely by the barrel in one hand. “I know these people. German” he says, voice low and level in a way that makes John hesitate.

The recognition seems to go both ways when Andreas releases a breathless laugh that sounds more relieved than humoured.

“Yes. Arthur Morgan hat mir das Leben gerettet. Brachte mich nach Hause zu meiner Familie.” Whatever the man is saying, his wife anxiously nods along. John looks back to Charles.

“They say they’ve seen Arthur,” he tells him, and the reaction from the gangmen present is immediate — the subtle spike of tension, the creak of leather gloves as their grips tighten on their weapons. The woman muffles a frightened sound, turning her face into her son’s little cap, and John’s lips curl downwards. He lowers his gun and waves a dismissive hand at the men behind him. Without looking, he knows Javier, Lenny, Bill, and Sean tentatively follow suit, Andreas’ hunched shoulders dropping an inch as the weapons turn away.

“Arthur?” He presses, hoping his voice sounds more demanding than desperate, and frantically Andreas nods, gesturing them forward.

“Yes, komm komm!”

Even with no knowledge of German, John understands the simple directive. With Charles at his side they follow Andreas to the back of the wagon, leaving the other men as a barrier between the intruders and their camp. Andreas hurries to unlatch the endgate, and as he lowers the wooden panel, John’s breath rushes from him with the realisation that Arthur was finally home safe. However, the relief is short-lived when John takes in the state of Arthur, propped against some sacks and bundled under several blankets with a young girl watching over him. He’s gaunt and pale, with dark shadows beneath his eyes that look more like bruises, and grazes across his cheeks and forehead that have scabbed with age. From where he stands, John can also just make out a neat row of stitches peaking out from beneath the loose strands of hair falling across his forehead.

“Fuck,” John breathes, before clearing his throat. “Sorry,” he says to the girl, who gives him a brief smile. She’s quickly taken with Charles, a glimmer of recognition clear in her eye. “Hello,” she greets, the word heavily accented, but definitely English, much to John’s relief.

“Hello again,” Charles returns with a nod, soft and friendly. More so than John

Hands braced on the endgate, John starts to haul himself onto the wagon bed when Andreas grabs his arm. “Warte!”

He tears himself away, scarred features twisting into an aggressive scowl.

“What? You wantin’ money before you’ll let us take him?” he demands, bringing his repeater up across his chest in an unspoken threat.

“Nein, nein!” Andreas protests hastily, and Charles puts a firm hand on John’s shoulder as Andreas steps away with his hands up, his daughter shrinking back against Arthur’s side. After a beat, John reluctantly lowers the gun again, blowing out an agitated breath. “Bitte, bitte. Er ist- ist…”

Even though the man’s tone is contrite, John can feel his frustration welling.

“He is hurt,” the daughter cuts in, almost a double of her mother now that John takes a moment to look at her proper. There’s something challenging in her eye as she continues. “My father took him to the doctor, in St Denis.”

“Ich wünschte, ich hätte mehr tun können…” Andreas adds regretfully, and both Charles and John look to the daughter for further explanation.

The girl bites her lip, eyes downcast as she says: “It was very infected.”

Stomach turning, John climbs into the wagon. The sooner they had Arthur in his cot with Miss Grimshaw and the Reverend looking him over, the better. Reassured by the faintest signs of life, he steps around Arthur and reaches behind the man to take him beneath the arms.

 _“Holy shi-”_ he fumbles, almost dropping Arthur as Charles startles at the reaction.

“John? What’s wrong?” Charles asks, a tension beneath the level tone. John looks at him, pale and wide-eyed as he starts to pull the blankets away. When he gets down to Arthur’s jacket, simply draped over his shoulders, the brown leather slips away to reveal the extent of the man’s injury — his left arm, amputated at the bicep.

He stares, sick and uncomprehending, at the knotted sleeve where Arthur’s arm should be, and it takes several seconds before he realises Charles is repeating his name in a calm but commanding voice.

“John, are you with me?”

John finally manages to tear his eyes away, looking at Charles with a jerky nod.

“Y-yeah, I’m with you,” he assures, both of them ignoring the slight stammer.

“Alright, can you take him under his arms? I’ll get his legs.” Charles instructs as John nods silently, crouching so he can wrap his arms around Arthur’s chest as Charles reaches in to lift his legs. Together they gently manoeuvre Arthur from the wagon without a twitch of consciousness from the man, and John can’t help but think how wrong it feels to have Arthur’s head lolling lifelessly against his shoulder.

The girl climbs out after him, and they’ve just righted Arthur between them when Hosea calls out, trotting up the side of the wagon.

“What on earth is going on her-” he stops short, his brief expression of relief crumbling before their eyes. John can’t help but wonder if he’d worn a similar look of distress upon discovering the unsettling truth. “My god. Get him to his cot, quickly - quickly!” Hosea demands. With little more than a glance between them, John and Charles obey, supporting Arthur’s back as they take a leg each and lift.

“Entschuldigen Sie…”

Hosea turns as Andreas addresses him, the young girl standing attentively at his side. He pulls a few sheets of paper from his breast pocket and offers them to the old outlaw.

“Instructions,” the girl supplies, “from the doctor.” She reaches into the back of the wagon and retrieves a small, simple wooden box. “And his medicines.”

Hosea takes them both, throat tight as he nods.

“Thank you,” he manages, voice soft. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

Andreas smiles, though it’s not a truly happy one. With a quiet word to his daughter, patting her hair affectionately, she climbs back into the wagon and he rebolts the endgate.

“You’re welcome to stay the night, if you need to,” Hosea offers, walking alongside Andreas until the man stops next to the front seat where his wife and son wait.

Andreas shakes his head, “Danke, aber…”

Hosea waves his hand. “Don’t worry,” he interrupts, tucking the supply box under his arm as he gestures with his free hand. “Come, you can turn your wagon around up ahead.”

“Arthur Morgan,” Andreas says, reaching out a hand, but withdraws it before he makes contact with Hosea’s shoulder. He looks at the camp ahead where the man in question had been taken. “Arthur Morgan, er ist ein...good- good Mann.”

Hosea laughs, a weak but appreciative sound, and nods. “That he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be aiming to upload every Sunday around 11am/12pm UK time. I'm not quite sure of how long this fic will be, but I'm (tentatively) estimating around 50-60k/15 chapters. With that in mind, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!
> 
> Comments and Concrit are always welcome :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the lovely comments on the first chapter! Chapter 3 is slightly shorter than the other chapters, so I thought I'd post Chapter 2 today and Chapter 3 on Sunday as scheduled (:
> 
> **Important Story Note:** As the primary focus of this fic is now fairly obvious, I want to address certain things up front:
> 
> I am not an amputee nor do I have or know anyone with a limb difference, so while I do my very best to research these situations and experiences to present them as accurately as possible, I am working from mostly second or third hand resources. However, if anything seems glaringly incorrect, please do let me know! 
> 
> Following on from that, I've tried to believably incorporate these modern accounts with the time period, Arthur's characters, and his unique situation. I want to forewarn anyone reading this fic that it will contain **outdated and sometimes outright derogatory word usage** (thanks Micah). This is a combination of wanting to use terms similar in tone to the RDR world/period (which is obviously less progressive than present), and Arthur's pre-established low self-esteem, his lacking sense of self worth, and symptoms of PTSD. However I do want to make it clear that this obviously does not reflect Arthur's (or my own) opinions of amputees or people living with limb differences. Ya'll are awesome people. 
> 
> If there is a situation in this fic which could use correction from someone with more insight than myself, I am of course very happy to have this brought to my attention! You can contact me most easily through my tumblr: [@Southernlynxx](https://southernlynxx.tumblr.com)

By this point in his life, Arthur considers it almost a comfort to wake up to pain, if only because it’s as good an assurance as any that he isn’t dead. But it has been a very long time since he’d woken to a pain so crippling that it almost sends him straight back under.

It starts as the slightest irritation that barely registers in his subconscious. But then it compounds into a pain so raw and awful that it claws through his dormancy and wrenches him from the depths of sleep. Groaning and disorientated, Arthur doesn’t realise he’s started thrashing until a firm but gentle hand presses him down by the shoulder. His body gives without resistance, and it’s telling of his current condition — such fragility might have alarmed him if he could feel anything besides the pain and the crushing weight of exhaustion.

“Take it easy, son. I’m here,” a gentle voice soothes.

“Hosea?”

It doesn’t sound like a word, let alone a name — his voice so hoarse and cracked it’s more reminiscent of a breeze wheezing through the bulrushes. His eyelids feel thick and heavy, but he stubbornly manages to pry them open, wincing at the indistinct smears of light and colour. It absently reminds him of an artist he’d stumbled across once when riding over the plains, hunched over a sketchbook and applying watercolours too quick to a wet page. Not that Arthur had known how to handle the medium any better.

“Here, have some water. Bring your head forward just a little…” Even with the instruction, it’s Hosea’s hand alone that tips Arthur’s head forward enough to trickle water past his parched lips. Despite Hosea’s best efforts, droplets run from the corners of his mouth and down his throat, but Arthur doesn’t much care as he drinks greedily. The cup is removed and his head laid back down against the pillow, his expression twisted in a pained grimace.

“I’m home?” he rasps, the words still rough but at least comprehensible. His vision is steadily clearing, and now he can make out the warm sunlight beyond what must be the canopy of his tent. Although the finer details of the man are still lost to a certain haziness, the pale sheen of Hosea’s hair and the warm yellow of his tanned vest are comforting. For the moment, he doesn’t worry about the gaps in his memory that should tell him how he got here.

“You’re home, my boy,” Hosea assures him. “The Reverend stopped by not too long ago, so the pain should die down soon.”

Arthur groans quietly, inhaling deeply through his nose as he wills whatever the saintly drunk had pumped him full of to kick in. In a bid for distraction, he takes in the haggard appearance of his father-figure, stooped over in a chair next to his cot. He snorts softly, catching Hosea’s attention.

“You look as bad as I feel, old-timer,” he mutters, managing a weak grin through the course rasp in his throat. Hosea chuckles quietly, though it’s more a surprised huff at Arthur’s observation than anything else.

“What’s wrong? Ain’t seen you this down in the mouth since I got bit by that rattler in Tumbleweed in ‘83.”

That at least gets a genuine puff of laughter out of the man.

“I still hold you accountable for that whole fiasco — _and_ for turning me grey before my time,” he admonishes. But when he looks at Arthur, he can see the laughter hasn’t reached Hosea’s eyes.

Athur regards him more seriously, keeping his tone light when he asks: “Ain’t dyin’, am I?”

“ _No._ Not at all,” Hosea insists, sitting straighter in his seat. A knot in his chest loosens at the assurance, and Arthur breathes a little easier. “You’ll live to ride another day, don’t you worry.”

“Speakin’ of ridin’,” Arthur mutters, adjusting his head more comfortably on the pillow now that each little tilt didn’t send pinpricks of fire along his nerves. “Did Fen make it back ok?”

Hosea’s expression becomes one of genuine exasperation at the mention of the horse, and Arthur has to bite back an amused smile.

“I can assure you the temperamental bastard is alive and well. Been giving us hell ever since you were carted in” he says drily. “Had to be tied to the hitchin’ post to stop him rampaging through the camp trying to get to you.”

Arthur laughs at that, an honest though hoarse sound of surprise and pleasure that quickly dissolves into a bout of unpleasant coughs.

“Don’t go making yourself worse, Arthur,” Hosea chides, bringing the water cup back to Arthur’s lips once the worst of the coughing subsides. The water is warm from sitting in the balmy southern weather, but it soothes the dry ache in the back of his throat regardless.

He lies back with a weary grunt, but he’s still chuckling quietly.

“He’s a real ass,” Arthur mutters fondly, “but a real good horse.”

Hosea hums in agreement. “I figure if anyone could have made something of that brute, it was you. Still got that nasty look in his eye, mind you.”

“That he does,” Arthur concedes, his words softening as the soothing numbness of morphine begins to take hold.

He faintly feels Hosea’s palm on his shoulder, warm and comforting as it pats gently. “You rest more, son. We’ll have you back on your feet in no time,” he swears, just as Arthur is pulled back into the tides of sleep.

* * *

Arthur's subsequent bouts of consciousness are fleeting and sporadic at best — sometimes only waking long enough to have water or a thin stew fed between his lips before he’s out again.

Although the pangs of hunger and thirst are frequent, it’s the pain that proves to be his constant. Often it’s little more than a manageable soreness across his chest. Other times he’s brought to by a relentless burn that has him gritting his teeth and drawing in long shaky breaths until he’s pulled back under.

It’s a mild pain threatening to build towards the latter that stirs Arthur from his thankfully dreamless sleep. The ache is still bearable and almost familiar by this point, so it’s the hushed voices conversing nearby that draw his attention.

“-did they find us?”

“Arthur must have told them; only way they’d know to bring him here.”

Dutch makes a thoughtful noise, but Hosea’s answer doesn’t seem to assuage his inkling of doubt as he asks: “And you’re sure we have nothing to fear from these people, Mr Smith?”

“Sakes, Dutch,” Hosea interjects. “They brought Arthur back to us with enough medical supplies to last our next three ill-advised shootouts. They didn’t even ask anything in return.”

“And that doesn’t seem at all suspicious to you, my friend? This unassuming gesture of good will?”

“Arthur and I rescued the father from some bandits who were camped here before us,” Charles interrupts, hushing the two men. “I doubt they’ve been here long enough to know who we really are, and an immigrant family who barely speaks English won’t be of interest to the law.”

He doesn’t get to hear whether the men agree with Charles or not, because a spike of pain chooses that moment to cinch around his arm, pinching like a rope pulled too tight and forcing his next breath through his teeth in a long hiss.

“Arthur, are you ok?” Hosea asks in concern.

He’s damp and clammy with sweat, the blanket sticking uncomfortably to his skin as he shifts. With his lips twisted in a grimace, Arthur growls out: “Yeah, yeah. Just my arm fucking _hurts_.”

Suddenly he’s tired of lying down — tired of lying in his sweat and grime and God knows what else. So he pushes through the pain to finally sit up, wrestling his hand free of the blanket so he can reach for his aching arm.

Hosea’s hand catches his wrist before he can leverage himself upright, trying to push Arthur back down with the other. But Arthur, for all his fatigue, isn’t interested in remaining bedridden any longer. He swats his father’s hands away.

“Hosea, what the hell-”

He forces himself upright, but almost topples backwards with a startled breath when he finds nothing to support him. Dropping back onto his elbow, Arthur goes quiet.

Defeated, Hosea draws back to stand next to the other men. Charles has his eyes respectfully averted, but Hosea watches him with unmasked remorse. And Dutch… Dutch’s expression is an amalgam of different emotions that Arthur isn’t in the right frame of mind to pick apart.

Ignoring Hosea’s feeble protests that he shouldn’t move around too much, Arthur swings his feet to the floor. The blanket falls away with a sharp tug, leaving Arthur staring at the true extent of his injury. He’s bandaged from his shoulder to the quarter of flesh and bone that still remains of his arm, and the spots of blood and pus seeping through the fabric tell of a healing infection.

At first he thinks his broader senses have contracted, reduced to just the immediate horror in front of him. But no, the camp has simply stilled with the realisation that Arthur is sitting up, discovering the damage they’ve all known about for days.

And even with the evidence right in front of him, Arthur can’t quite process it — fights through the spikes of pain to try and flex fingers that aren’t there anymore.

“Arthur, son…” Dutch says gently, his tone sympathetic in a way that makes Arthur’s chest clench with defiance. Denial.

“I’d like some time alone,” he grunts, his voice gruff and thick in a way that makes his throat feel tight.

Charles leaves, quiet and immediate.

Even though he keeps his eyes fixed on his arm, or beyond it, he knows Dutch and Hosea hesitate. But still they respect his wishes and Dutch steps out with a quiet exhale. It leaves him and Hosea alone for just a few moments as the older man places a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” he murmurs regretfully, before leaving Arthur to his thoughts.

When he’s sure the men have gone and the rest of the camp has resumed its previous activity, Arthur places his head in his hand and releases a deep shaky breath.

**\---**

It’s evening when someone next tries to engage Arthur, and it doesn’t really surprise him when it turns out to be John Marston of all people.

He’s sitting on his cot with his back against the munitions wagon, blanket draped around his bare shoulders and journal open in his lap, when the man makes his appearance. Arthur’s staring blankly at the off-white pages, pencil forgotten on the cot beside him, when he registers the sound of approaching footsteps and snaps the journal closed. More out of habit than a sense of privacy.

When he looks up, it’s to see the familiar silhouette backlit against the main campfire, all broad shoulders and lean hips. He’d set his kerosene lamp low, just enough light to see by and no more, so it’s only when John’s almost in Arthur’s tent that he’s able to see the man’s face and the light reflected in his dark eyes.

“Hey,” John greets, deliberately neutral in a way that almost impresses Arthur.

He grunts in response. “You want something, Marston?”

John raises the extra bowl he’s carrying in lieu of an answer, and Arthur eyes him skeptically. With a sigh, he waves the man properly into the tent.

“Figured after eating nothin’ but stock the last few days you might want somethin’ more fillin’,” he supplies, and Arthur can’t argue that with the way his stomach has been twinging something awful for the past few hours.

He takes the offered dish but isn’t prepared for the way his hand trembles under the weight of it as he brings it to his lap. The relief he feels when John doesn’t comment on it is bitter, and he stares hard into his bowl of stew and mashed potatoes.

“Also brought these,” John adds, cutting through his impending mood and revealing the two beer bottles he’d stashed in his empty holsters. He pops the cap off one and places it on Arthur’s table before he makes himself comfortable on the floor, back resting against the barrel Arthur used as a shaving station and legs kicked out towards the cot.

It would almost be comfortingly normal, sitting and eating together like this as if nothing were amiss, nothing tragically wrong. Except this is perhaps one of their most peaceful exchanges in years, and that alone has Arthur keeping his eyes fixed on his food, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As if on cue, John swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How’re you feelin’?”

Arthur’s spoon stops midway to his mouth before he drops it back into the bowl with a clatter.

“I’m fuckin’ peachy, Marston,” he snaps.

He’d already sequestered most of his fury away in a deep dark hollow inside of himself — hidden and left to fester with his grief and the _unfairness_ of it. But some of it still seep into his thoughts and courses hot through veins.

He wasn’t the type to shout and snarl and break things, that was more John’s means of dealing with his emotions. Something physical and tempestuous like the man himself. But it’s still raw, still a fiercely burning injustice that itches under scrutiny, and John had always been good at getting under his skin, looking too close, prying where he knew better than to pry.

“Don’t talk t’me like it’s a stupid question, Morgan,” John snipes back. “I ain’t tryin’ to be an ass, I just wanna— Christ. I’m just glad you're back, alright?”

Arthur glares at the younger man, but John refuses to meet his eye and instead scowls into his bowl, mashing his potatoes into his stew like a sullen child. Arthur sighs, too spent to hold onto his anger.

“How long was I gone?” he asks, picking up his spoon to resume eating. He pretends not to see John side-eying him with a lingering suspicion as the conversation shifts.

“Near on two weeks, give or take,” he replies at last. “‘Cept that mad horse o’ yours came back without you less than a week after you left. You was missin’ just over a week.”

Arthur blows out a long breath through his nose, a brief silence settling between them.

“To be honest, I don’t know,” he says at last, low and rough. John looks at him, brow furrowed. “How I feel,” he clarifies, before scooping another spoonful of food into his mouth.

To Arthur’s surprise, John’s expression smoothes out and he nods as if in understanding. He hadn’t expected the man to be satisfied with such an ambiguous answer, usually so invested in the black or white with no mind for the shades of gray in between.

“It hurtin’?”

Arthur shakes his head, putting his spoon down so he can reach for his beer.

“Naw, Reverend came by. Real generous with his morphine.”

John barks out a laugh. “Yeah, gotta admit it was a real treat when I was laid up after them wolves.” He pops the cap off his own beer, but pauses with the bottle inches from his lips. “I dunno what you did to help them, that family, the one that brought you back, but they got good stuff for you. Painkillers, tonics, proper bandages and antisepses-”

“Antiseptic.”

“Yeah. Didn’t even hesitate about givin’ it to us. Obviously wanted to give you the best chance of gettin’ better.”

Arthur doesn’t know what John is trying to achieve by telling him this, so he takes several long pulls of his drink to give himself time to think.

“All the medicine in the world ain’t gonna fix this,” Arthur mutters, surprising himself. He follows up his grim observation with a sardonic laugh. “Might finally have your chance to be Dutch’s golden gun after all these years.”

It’s more bitter than he anticipates, but it’s John’s acrid look that quells him somewhat.

“Y’know what?” John says, getting to his feet, “Go to Hell, Morgan.” Grabbing his bottle by the neck, he stalks off into the darkened camp without a backwards glance.

Arthur watches him go, then tosses his dish to the side with a frown, appetite gone. Reaching over to extinguish the lamp, he sits back to sip his beer, feeling better doused in darkness with only the faint cast of the campfire to see by.

It’s the closest he’d ever allow himself to come to hiding.

* * *

Rest comes in fits and starts over the next few days, his mind and body both too wired and too exhausted to know whether he needs sleep or to get away before he tears himself out of his skin. The result is an agitation that presses so fervently against his restless mind that it makes sleep hard to come by, and turbulent when it does.

His refusal to take morphine with his longer bouts of consciousness doesn’t help matters. The lingering aches when awake he could soothe with tonics, but it meant when it wasn’t nightmares jerking him awake, it was pain.

But even then, between the murkish nightmares, the snatches of memories, and the pain which kindled constantly beneath his skin, it was the forgetting which struck the hardest. The times he woke up ignorant and untroubled, only to have to swallow the same harsh truth over and over again.

His only consolation was the despair got duller each time.

It proves to be one of his better days when he wakes up early one morning to a persistent but otherwise manageable pain down his left side. He’s breathing deep and slow through the discomfort when he hears the two gradually escalating voices from within the camp. It couldn’t have been long past dawn, the light still pallid and cool when Arthur pushes himself to his feet, rubbing at his overgrown scruff somewhat irritably. The grazes across his face had mostly healed, leaving only a few pink tints of new skin behind, and the stitches had been removed from his temple two days prior.

He stops next to his clothing chest, still within the confines of his tent as he spies Hosea striding stiffly through camp towards the scoutfire. The flap of Dutch’s tent falls back into place as the man himself disappears inside.

A series of small movements oscillate through the camp — Sean rolling back over on his bedroll, Bill’s head dropping back onto his chest, Miss Grimshaw and Pearson looking away under the pretense that their discussion about that morning’s breakfast hadn’t been disrupted.

“Hosea,” he says lightly, and the man starts.

“Oh, Arthur, good morning,” he returns, fixing him with a look that doesn’t sit right. It’s not pity, but it’s something that sits just as uncomfortably with Arthur.

“Anything I should be concerned about?” he asks, inclining his head towards Dutch’s tent. Hosea clears his throat and gives him a humourless smile that Arthur has become very familiar with over the years — it’s a smile that says ‘I have a big bone to pick, and it has Dutch’s name on it’.

Hosea waves off his concern. “No, no, nothing to worry about. You know how we are sometimes.”

Arthur sighs and nods, turning back into his tent as Hosea continues on his way.

He knows it will come out sooner or later.

**\---**

Miss Grimshaw stops by later that morning to redress his arm, the old bandages spotted with dried blood and yellowish discharge. He sits on his cot with his elbow braced on his thigh, slightly turned away from where the woman is carefully but not so gently peeling the cotton from his skin. The more tacky areas which require a firmer hand, especially where the fabric tugs at the tender skin, has Arthur twitching and hissing through his teeth despite himself, eyes watering from the sting.

“Quit your fussing, Mr Morgan,” the woman chides, her tone admonishing enough that it has him huffing a laugh through the burn. The thick fabric of her skirt brushes against his leg as she turns to dispose of the bandages and arm herself with some cotton scraps and a cup of water. She begins to clean away the blood and fluids oozing sluggishly around the stitches, steadily revealing the mess underneath. The skin around the stump is raw and swollen with an unusual shine, and while the thick black stitches knit parts of his malformed flesh together, there are still places where the amputation wound remains partially open. It takes all of his conscious effort not to suddenly jerk from the woman’s touch when she dabs at the stump, though not out of pain. She shouldn’t have to be the one to deal with this.

“I can clean it,” he says abruptly, surprising Miss Grimshaw who briefly rights herself to look down at him.

“Excuse me? I can assure you I am more than capable, Mr Morgan.” She eyes him sharply, and Arthur tries not to shrink under her glare.

“Hadn’t meant to imply...” he trails off with a frown, and Miss Grimshaw sighs and visibly softens.

“I wouldn’t trust any of the men around here to clean behind their ears properly, let alone a wound like this,” she says in a tone that Arthur knows is her unique brand of teasing. It at least works the frown from his face as he ducks his head, humming agreeably. “Honestly, all the ridiculous scrapes you manage to find yourselves in,” she continues, more to herself that Arthur as she dabs iodine over the wound — a rare commodity to have in their stock.

He snorts lightly in agreement, then notices two figures coming towards them — Charles walking in step with Mary-Beth.

His stomach turns when Mary-Beth falters, looking close to tears when she sees him. It takes a light hand on her back to encourage her forward, and Arthur fixes them with a disarming smile as they reach the entrance of his tent. He tries not to linger on how Mary-Beth lowers her eyes to stare at the edge of his cot rather than look at Arthur himself.

“Arthur I… I just wanted to say we’re so happy to have you back, and… and alive. We were real worried for a while there,” She says with the slightest stutter. “Karen, Tilly and I, I hope you don’t mind, but we stitched up your shirts. We thought it would be… well, you know.”

She fusses with the fabric in her hands, eyes still downcast, and Arthur realises that she’s holding a bundle of his shirts. He snarls out a noise torn between shock and pain, making Mary-Beth jump in fright, when Miss Grimshaw presses a pad of lint to his open wounds and tightens the new bandage into a compress without warning. He fights through his grimace as the pain recedes, nodding gratefully to the young woman.

“That’s real thoughtful of you ladies, I appreciate you takin’ the time to do that,” he rasps.

Mary-Beth manages a weak smile and places the shirts carefully on his trunk. Clutching her now empty hands in front of her, her lower lip begins to tremble, and for one horrifying moment Arthur thinks she’s going to cry.

 _“Miss Gaskill,”_ Miss Grimshaw’s snaps. “If you think for one minute you’re going to shirk your duties by shuffling your feet around here, then you are very much mistaken!” The shrill and sudden reprimand almost makes Arthur jump, let alone Mary-Beth who visibly spooks, her eyes wide like a startled doe’s. “Now shoo!” the matriarch adds for good measure, sending the young woman scurrying back across the camp.

Arthur heaves a relieved sigh, shooting Charles a dry look when the man smirks under his breath.

“Thank you, Susan.”

The woman sniffs, tying off the last of his bandages before packing away her supplies. “I don’t know what for,” she dismisses, looking ready to bustle her way out of the tent before she sets her gaze on Arthur. She regards him with a pensive expression that he can’t quite place, then seems to deflate ever so slightly. With a soft mutter that sounds like ‘you silly boy’, she drops a light kiss to his forehead. In the next moment she’s flitting from the tent, ready to wage her daily war with the womenfolk.

The well-worn hot and cold exchange leaves Arthur chuckling quietly and shaking his head. “And what can I do for you, Mr Smith?” he directs to Charles, reaching over to pick up one of the shirts Mary-Beth had returned to him — an old black shirt that had been worn to a patchy shade of grey.

“Came to see how you were keeping,” the man returns easily as Arthur drags the shirt over his shoulders.

“Well, still here, ain’t I?”

“Were you planning on going somewhere?”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away as he works on adjusting his grip on the shirt collar. It takes a few attempts until he’s able to slip his residual limb into the sleeve and drag his fingers along the collar without losing his grip. It proves more frustrating than he anticipates when the stretch causes pangs of discomfort across his chest and shoulders. Finally, he’s able to get his good arm into the fabric and shrug it on properly.

“Hopefully not if I get a say in it,” he replies gruffly.

Charles looks at him with a frown, clearly displeased by the insinuation. “It won’t be like that.”

He makes a dismissive noise and Charles turns his attention away again. Arthur takes the brief moment of privacy to inspect the alterations to his shirt, feeling a tightness in his chest when he notices how the sleeve - neatly folded and stitched to just above where his elbow used to be - no longer left any allusions to his impairment. It was certainly more practical to have the excess fabric pinned out of the way, even available to use as a make-shift bandage should he one day need it, but it was going to take some getting used to.

With a weary sigh, Arthur inspects his next challenge. He hadn’t really considered the buttons, so it’s only when he’s pulling his shirt together that he realises it’s a test of dexterity. He could twirl a revolver around his finger and demonstrate a bit of flare with his dagger during five-finger-filet, but apparently little buttons with no means of securing the fabric exceeded his capabilities. He knows he shouldn’t be as frustrated as he is, shouldn’t feel the shame flush hot under his skin when he can’t complete the simple damn task of doing up his own shirt, but it’s a mortifying level of helplessness he hasn’t experienced in thirty years, and a helplessness he’d never considered facing again.

He inhales deeply, not realising his hand has fallen to his lap.

“It’s a real warm day today,” Charles says, surprising Arthur who almost flinches, having forgotten the man was there. “Fancy a walk to the lake?” It’s one of the first questions posed to Arthur where he can’t detect a hesitancy, a fear of pushing Arthur too far too soon, and the change is refreshing.

“Sure, why not?” He agrees.

Abandoning the buttons, he pushes himself up from the cot and follows Charles from the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope your enjoyed this second chapter, comments and concrit is always welcome and appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read this far! I apologise for this chapter being a little shorter.

Stepping out into the light and warmth of the Lemoyne sun is a strange feeling after so many days confined to his tent. A part of him wants to put the blame at Hosea and Miss Grimshaw’s feet, who had been particularly insistent about him resting. But he’s been moving around with only minor discomfort for days now, and dismissing the apathy that had burdened his mind and body and kept him languishing in his cot would have been doing them both a great disservice.

His denial had burnt hot but quick. His grief molded into something more palatable. The volatility of his thoughts concealed behind an exterior of indifference built up over years of violence and hardship. But he had yet to figure out how to handle this new discomfiting sense of modesty — a foreign sensation that plagued him when he so much as toyed with the idea of joining in a poker game, or sitting to eat with everyone by the fire. Despite the invitations to do so, he had yet to take anyone up on their offer.

It was contempt for his own idleness and wallowing mind that had him agreeing to join Charles, but as they slip past the wagons and tents towards the shore of Flat Iron Lake, the feeling of exposure unsettles him. He’d always been a private man, but never shy or modest. He’d never thought twice about being seen or heard, but now the thought has the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with unease.

The lush grass folding beneath their feet quickly turns warm and gritty as they step onto the sandy shore, and the slightly odd sway to Arthur’s gait becomes more pronounced as the grains shift beneath his feet. The sense of imbalance is almost disorientating, and Arthur can’t help but linger on the absence of physical weight on his left side.

Without a word they take to leaning against the large boulder right of the pier. The sounds of camp activity are easily heard but muted by distance, and the physical barrier made up of Arthur and Strauss’ tents alleviates some of Arthur’s stress. That’s when he notices Pearson fishing on the old wooden jetty, casting his line into the water. It’s by chance the man glances over his shoulder, and his face lights up at the sight of them.

“Mr Smith,” he calls out first with a wave. “Mr Morgan, it’s good to see you out and about!”

Arthur nods, but keeps his head dipped low beneath the brim of his hat. His attention falls to the fishing rod firmly gripped in the man’s hands without him realising, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to do something as simple as fish again. The feeling of disquiet creeps up soft and unassuming, sweeping him up and threatening to lead him down a dark path.

“So, how’s it been ‘round camp?” he asks, diverting his thoughts from their miserable descent. He glances at Charles as the man pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offers one to Arthur. He takes the smoke, keen to have an additional distraction as he rolls it slowly between his fingers.

“The usual,” Charles replies, placing his cigarette between his lips. He sparks a match to light Arthur’s and then his own before flicking it into the water. “Although your condition’s caused quite a stir. No one really knows how to take it.”

Arthur grunts in acknowledgement, unenthused to be the hot topic of discussion but appreciative of Charles’ honesty nonetheless. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette, feeling the comforting warmth of nicotine fill his mouth and seep into his system until he expels the smoke in one long, controlled breath.

“You’ve probably already heard Dutch and Hosea having a go at each other.”

“Heard them havin’ a go ‘bout something.”

“At least they’re quieter than when Dutch and Molly start,” Charles mutters, making Arthur snort and shake his head.

“Small mercies,” he agrees with a smirk. “What’s this thing between Dutch and Hosea anyhow?”

Charles shrugs. “Not really sure. But it sounded like Hosea was upset that no one was with you. And for not looking harder when John and I came back from Roanoke Valley without any leads.”

“Christ,” Arthur mutters, blowing out another plume of smoke. “That ain’t on Dutch, Hosea’s gotta know that.”

“He does, and so do the rest of us. I think he just feels responsible, in a way.”

Arthur frowns and shakes his head, rolling the cigarette contemplatively between his lips. “He’s a fool if he thinks that. Only one responsible is me.”

“You really believe that?” Charles asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

“I was stupid. Got involved in a situation that weren’t my business and, well…” He gestures with his hand to illustrate his point. “I paid the price for it.”

Charles gives him a questioning look, and Arthur clears his throat awkwardly. “Don’t remember much of the details, but was huntin’ after a job n’ heard a woman screamin’. Murfrees holdin’ up ‘er wagon — killed the man she was with.”

“So if a woman calls for help in the future, you’ll just ride on past?”

Arthur snorts, stubbing out his cigarette on the rock behind them before flicking it into the water. “‘Probably not. S’why I’m a goddamn fool.”

Charles chuckles, deep and quiet. “If you say so, Arthur.”

A comfortable silence settles between them and Arthur looks further down the beach. He spots John with his cup of coffee, standing at a conspicuous distance from the water’s edge. They hadn’t spoken since that first night, and he hadn’t seen much of John around camp during the day — recruited into finding information about some Braithwaite horses, last he’d overheard. But despite the tense note they’d parted on, when John looks up and catches his eye, he nods his head with an easy acknowledgement, which Arthur returns. They’d overcome worse spats in their time, and John had always been more forgiving towards Arthur than Arthur had ever been towards John.

His gaze flits over the assembly of tents and wagons and that same prickly feeling of reluctance crawls unpleasantly up his back. It’s pathetic, he thinks, feeling such a way at the thought of integrating back into the eyes of the camp. As if it isn’t inevitable. _Expected._

“‘M surprised Bell hasn’t stuck his nose in. Can’t imagine he don’t have something to say ‘bout all this,” Arthur mutters.

“He’s already been warned,” Charles informs him, stubbing out his own cigarette. “Plenty people were ready to take him down a peg when he started runnin’ his mouth.”

Arthur snorts. “When are people not ready to knock that bootlicker down a peg?”

They watch as Pearson reels in his line and picks up his bucket of fish, wandering back to camp with a parting nod in their direction.

“Didn’t stop him trying his luck. John was on him before he made it within ten feet of your tent. You’d only been back two days, still unconscious. Shame, really, you missed a good fight.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Marston mess ‘im up?”

Charles smirks, and it’s all the answer Arthur needs.

“The boy’s lean as round steak and almost as tough,” Arthur chuckles, pleased that Micah had finally been acquainted with John’s more ornery temperament. The amusement is quickly dispelled in a sigh. “Ain’t much looking forward to facin’ the rat bastard… and everythin’ else,” Arthur admits.

Charles’ expression of solidarity comes in the form of a hand resting brief but firm on his shoulder, and Arthur appreciates it.

“I need to have a word with Miss Jackson, can I get you anything?” Charles asks after a few moments of silence.

Arthur shakes his head and Charles pushes himself up from his pitched position against the boulder. “It’s good to have you back on your feet, Arthur,” Charles tells him sincerely, before he makes his way towards camp.

Looking along the lake side and seeing no one, Arthur finds himself very much alone as he sits and watches the water ripple at the shore and distant boats idle on the surface. The quiet lets his mind wander, and he brings his hand instinctively to his gun belt only to remember it was still sitting on his table where Hosea had left it almost two weeks ago.

He sorely feels its absence now, and for the first time Arthur ponders how he would go about buckling it. Would he still carry a pistol in his second holster? Could he even handle anything larger than a sawn-off anymore?

He would never be able to draw a bow again.

Would it even be possible to hunt with a rifle?

The sweat beading on his skin could be attributed to the hot day, but not the tremor in his hand as his thoughts start to run away with him.

In a blink he can feel the kick of a rifle against his shoulder, the power of the weapon between his hands, and suddenly his arm burns all the way from his shoulder down to his missing fingertips. Arthur gasps at the sudden obscure pain, the way his mind spins at the teeth-gritting sensation gripping a limb _he no longer has_.

He quickly brings his hand to his opposite shoulder, pressing against the still tender flesh of his stump until it’s the only pain he can feel. He doesn’t stop until he’s doubled over and panting, grimacing through the _real_ pain and not the phantom wants of an afflicted mind.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he hisses when the pain eventually starts to recede, and Arthur blows out a long, stabalising breath.

He fervently wishes in that moment that the crates of alcohol weren’t kept in the middle of the goddamn camp, but as he trudges back towards his tent, he remembers the bottle of rum stashed at the bottom of his chest.

It would make for fitting company.

* * *

The next week proves to be tiresome as Arthur keeps largely to himself. His most steadfast visitor is Miss Grimshaw who routinely monitors and redresses his wound. It’s through her that Arthur learns of the infection which had seemingly ravaged his arm from Van Horn to St Denis, so he understands the underlying note of relief to her voice when she announces the last traces of his infection have finally cleared.

The stitches no longer seep and the blood spots are few and far between now as the last open wounds from the amputation surgery begin to heal over.

“Only another week or so until you can have these off, I imagine,” she’d told him during his last dressing change.

Despite the hints for him to spend less time in his tent, Arthur knows he hasn’t yet pushed his luck enough for Miss Grimshaw to demand it of him, so he spends many of the early nights cradling a bottle of alcohol and working his thoughts into his journal. It’s with some grim amusement he reckons he hasn’t brooded over something this much since his break-up with Mary some ten years ago.

Perhaps, in his more dramatic youth, he might have equated losing Mary Gillis to losing an arm, might have even given one for her in some histrionic gesture. At least then it might have felt like a sacrifice rather than a consequence of being a fool.

He tips his head back with a sigh, knocking it gently against the crates stacked at the head of his cot. He wonders if these musings too would one day be lost to the disarray of a life constantly on the move.

Many of his feelings have simmered since the initial shock, and now there are times when Arthur feels truly detached from the injury, shrugging disinterestedly when Hosea or Charles stops by and the conversation veers to how he’s coping. As if there’s anything Arthur can do _but_ cope.

Other times, the extent of his inability, his deficiency, whips up the waves of his contempt until it’s a roiling sea inside of him. He feels it when he dresses, slow and considerate. When he can’t navigate the ties on his pants fast enough when he has to relieve himself and carries that humility with him. When he finally shaves his several weeks of beard growth and comes away nicked and bleeding from the blade. The acute awareness of every time he’d ever braced or supported himself and how inconsequential the action had felt at the time.

He latches onto the frustration and refuses to relinquish it. Uses it to pull himself above the waves of apathy and resentment that seek to wash him away when he lies alone in his cot during the early hours of twilight.

It’s the first spark to catch and reignite his burning need to do _better._ To pull him from his bed and no longer hide from the pitying looks he can feel from all over camp. To _provide;_ like he always had and should be now, despite this debilitation. To no longer restrict his contact with Dutch, his father and leader, to fleeting chats in his tent before he’s inevitably told to _take it easy._

He understands, in a way — they’d been lucky enough to never have to deal with a situation quite like this before. Usually, at worst, it was a bullet embedded somewhere that meant an inevitable death. At best, somewhere it didn’t. There were dislocated shoulders, broken bones, concussions. It was always one or the other - life or death. You lived to get back on the horse or you didn’t. They’d never really considered the space in between, the prospect of life but at an indelible cost.

The fear of wandering, lost and forgotten, in that unmapped middle ground is visceral, and it pushes Arthur to his feet with an irate huff. Shrugging off the weight of his pressing thoughts, he pulls a clean shirt from his clothing chest.

It’s his favourite one, the blue cotton soft with wear against his fingers. Like his other shirts, as he’d noticed over the past week, the first few bottom buttons are already done-up — courtesy of the women, he assumed. So it’s with considerable more ease he pulls the shirt over his head, tugs it down over his stomach, and with quiet concentration, fastens the remaining buttons. He’s more deft these days at tucking his shirt one-handed into the waistband of his work pants, and after fastening the ties, he pulls his suspenders up over his shoulders.

After a moment of deliberation, Arthur looks to his gun belt lying on the table, his pistols still tucked untouched in the holsters. Suddenly resolute, he grabs the belt by both ends and sets it on the bed beside him, then brings it around his waist so the buckle and strap rest in his lap. It proves to be finicky but not impossible to thread the belt and fasten it, and while it would be an entirely different struggle to attempt this while standing, Arthur is simply relieved to have the familiar weight against his hips.

With one last look out of his tent, Arthur steps over the empty bottles cluttered around his cot and strides, for the first time since he’d made it home, into the heart of the camp. His attention is fixed on the coffee pot sat next to Pearson’s campfire, so he doesn’t pay much mind to the way Sadie and Pearson’s bickering tapers off as he stoops down to place his cup on the floor.

“Mr Morgan, let-” the man cuts off with an affronted grunt, and Arthur glances up to see the cook rubbing his arm while locked in a glare with Sadie, her fist raised with the threat of hitting him again.

He snorts quietly, pouring his coffee and setting the percolator down so he can stand with his cup in hand.

“Arthur, it’s good to see you,” Sadie greets him cheerfully, and for a moment he simply takes her in — standing bold as brass in her shirt and pants with a repeater casually strapped to her back.

“Mrs Adler,” he returns with the slightest twitch of an appreciative smile. “You appear to be fitting in with the men just fine.” Pearson snorts at the remark and takes his pot from the fire as Sadie preens smugly, reflecting Arthur’s smirk right back at him.

He faintly tips his cup to her in an unspoken farewell as he turns towards the main campfire and the various people sitting around it. As he approaches, he draws back his shoulders when he spots Micah beginning to stand upon noticing him, throwing his arms wide in a theatrical gesture.

“Well if it isn’t our very own mangled man. Finally deigned to join us regular folk around the campfire — come take the weight off, Morgan,” the man invites with a satirical bow.

“Hey, lay off, Micah. Show some respect,” Lenny snaps, and Micah turns on his heel to coo at the boy sitting on one of the crates by the fireside.

“Aww, come now, kid. Big mean Morgan knows I’m just kiddin’.” Arthur steps over the log and takes a seat next to Karen, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he sips his coffee, letting the scalding heat against his tongue distract him from Micah’s baiting. He can’t help but glance up when Micah faces him again, his teeth bared in a grin.

“S’good to see ya alive, cowpoke. Though I reckon your dual-wielding days are behind you now.” Micah’s eyes flick to the side, and he knows the man is looking at his folded sleeve by the way his smile grows even more pleased before he meets Arthur’s eyes again. He feels a hot lick of anger at the blatant mockery, but he bites down on the venomous retorts he wants to spit at Micah’s feet. He holds the man’s stare as his grip around his cup tightens. “You’re awful quiet, not lost your tongue as well, have ya, Morgan?”

Arthur’s lip curls into a snarl, his usual sense of self control already stretched thin and brittle, and he knows the moment Micah realises he’s gotten under his skin.

To both their surprise, it’s Bill’s terse growl that breaks their stand-off.

“Just fuck off, Micah. Y’ain’t doin’ yerself no favours.”

“Yeah! No one likes you, you oily shitehole,” Sean hollers from where he’s propped next to Uncle, both slumped against the tree in the centre of camp. The old man drunkenly raises his bottle of beer in agreement, despite it being barely past noon.

“You tell ‘em, lads!” Pearson calls, unseen, from behind his wagon.

“Not missin’ out on puttin’ this shitrag in his place, am I?” Sadie queries as she comes to stand over Lenny’s shoulder, her hip cocked to the side.

“I think that’s you done for today,” Lenny summarises, the challenge clear in his voice as he stares up at Micah from his seat.

Micah looks around at the present gang members, the tension almost tangible as he sneers and shrugs the contempt from his shoulders, throwing up his hands in a careless gesture. “Alright, alright, ain’t no need to get so serious. But don’t come cryin’ to me when Morgan becomes a weight around all our necks. Or worse, a noose.”

Arthur frowns, and Micah’s satisfied smirk only grows when he catches Arthur’s eye as he saunters past.

“Vile lizard,” Karen mutters.

A terse silence follows Micah’s exit, and Arthur stares hard into the fire as the people around him shift uncomfortably and mutter to each other under their breath.

“Uncle Arthur?” a little voice pipes up.

Arthur blinks, looking to his right to see Jack standing nearby, watching him somewhat shyly as he holds a roughly whittled horse figure in his hands. The sudden presence of the boy surprises him, and it dawns on Arthur that he hadn’t really seen Jack since his return, besides the odd glimpse of him running between tents from across the camp. He wonders if it was Abigail’s doing as he sees her lingering nearby, watching apprehensively but not stepping in to take the boy away.

“Hey Jack,” Arthur rumbles warmly, offering the boy a small smile.

With missing a beat, Jack asks: “Where did your arm go?”

It’s like time itself stops the way everyone suddenly freezes at the question. The only sound besides the crackling of the fire is Abigail’s horrified _“Jack!”_ as she strides forward to pull the boy away. But Arthur motions for her to stop, extending his index and middle finger from around his coffee cup. It amuses him that in a camp full of outlaws, thieves and murderers both, that the first person to ask him outright is little six-year-old Jack Marston.

It makes the corners of his lips twitch upwards as he leans forward conspiratorially, beckoning Jack closer as he says in a stage-whisper: “I sold it.”

Jack looks at him wide-eyed and innocent, _“You can do that?”_

He looks at the boy with a solemn expression and nods, needing to bite back a grin as Abigail voices a reprimanding “Arthur!” to which he can picture her rolling her eyes.

“Mhm. It was to pay for something _really_ expensive. I was real lucky, you know why?”

He knows it’s not just Jack he has hooked on his ‘explanation’ as he feels the curious looks of the gang members all around him.

The boy shakes his head. “Why, Uncle Arthur?”

“Cause it almost cost me an arm _and_ a leg.”

There’s a beat of silence as Jack looks puzzled, but then he’s rewarded with a choked noise from behind him — suddenly John’s familiar, raspy, _uproarious_ laughter erupts, closely followed by Sean’s distinctive cackle after a shocked pause.

Jack stares up at him, smiling but bemused as laughter picks up all around them. Abigail takes him by the arm and leads him away, her own smile persistent despite her quiet mutter of ‘foolish boys’ which is most certainly directed at Arthur — but it’s worth it to hear Jack quietly ask if they can sell his pa’s arm too.

Lenny grins at him from across the fire as Bill wipes a humorous tear from his eye, and Arthur finally has it in him to grin back and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending on a slightly more uplifting note! I'm hoping this isn't too slow or uninteresting for you guys, I promise things will start to pick up in the next couple chapters (:   
> 
> 
> Comments & concrit are always welcome and appreciated <3


	4. Chapter 4

It gets easier each morning for Arthur to step out of his tent and join the other early risers around the breakfast pot. He drinks his coffee next to the campfire and listens with half an ear to Hosea and Lenny discussing literature — Thoreau, Hawthorne Douglass, and a few wry smirks at the mention of Miller. He eats his oatmeal as Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth cluster around him, because apparently _he’s_ the best one to ask whether a lily or tulip would make a better gift for the suitee in Mary-Beth’s latest story.

He chooses the lily.

Today, however, Arthur gets up before the sun crests the horizon and crosses the camp by the pale pre-dawn light, his gaze resolute on the lone tree stump by the poker table. He picks up the axe propped against it, and with a few lazy swings he adjusts his grip until it sits comfortably in his hand.

He’s barely let his focus linger on anything that might imply an intent to ‘exert himself’ around the camp, not since he’s been integrating himself back into everyones’ sights. He’s too aware of the glances still frequently directed at him. They are thankfully no longer awkward, but still hold too much sympathy for Arthur’s taste, and they now come with a frustrating new attentiveness that means someone is offering him assistance at every turn. It is well-intentioned, but aggravating.

So he feels much more comfortable like this — alone and unheeded in the middle of a slumbering camp. Left to figure out his withstanding capabilities and devise some form of purpose without scrutiny.

He spikes the axe into the ground so he can place a log to be chopped, then takes the axe in hand again. Fingers tensing around the worn-smooth handle, he lifts it up and immediately feels the weight lilt without a second hand to stabilise it. His left hand had always gripped the base of the handle, his right settled loosely below the head so it could slide on the downward swing, guiding the blade to its mark.

Unsure how it will go, Arthur tightens his grip and brings the axe down with a grunt, cursing quietly under his breath when he merely nicks a chip off the log and buries the head into the stump. He pulls it free with a few sharp jerks, steadies his aim, and brings it down again. The log separates at a significant angle, but it’s something. Placing another log, he hefts the axe up to try again.

By the time he’s placing the last log, the sun has risen and a few people are already milling around the camp, keeping their eyes carefully averted. Arthur is at least grateful for that. He’d considered stopping when Miss Grimshaw had first risen to start the coffee, but he’d barely been halfway through the log pile and he wasn’t one to leave a job unfinished.

It feels inefficient, having to constantly put down the axe to replace the log. It takes longer, more effort, and Arthur knows he’s probably pushed too hard when he brings the axe up and feels a tight ache across his shoulder and chest. The blade only cuts halfway through the log and Arthur has to heft it up a second time, and then a third, before it finally splits. When he sits the axe against the stump, he realises with some annoyance how much the task has drained him. His chest heaves as he draws in several deep breaths, making his shirt pull uncomfortably across his sweat-damp skin. He removes his hat to wipe his sleeve across his forehead, then replaces it atop his head with a long slow exhale to try and regulate his breaths.

Arthur is just looking over the mess of butchered logs — some chipped or shaved by his initial attempts, and very few showing the marks of a clean, even cut — when Javier approaches him with a cheerful “Good morning, Arthur.”

He nods his head to the slighter man, rolling the ache out of his shoulder and wrist. “Javier.”

“Let me move these for you, you should go have breakfast,” Javier suggests, already laying out the canvas sling to carry them. The offer is not dismissive, but Arthur hesitates anyway, glancing over the logs and heaving out a sigh as he nods.

“Sure, thanks.”

He stops by the pot for his oatmeal, accepting the bowl that Tilly offers him with a smile and a gentle touch to his arm. When he takes his seat next to the fire out of sight, he keeps his head down and eats without tasting, pretending he can’t hear Javier re-chopping the most uneven logs and breaking the unsalvageable ones down into kindling.

**\---**

Tossing his empty bowl into the wash pile, Arthur glances around the camp, the need to apply himself to _something_ overcoming the throbbing ache in his muscles. His attention falls to the maize sacks piled next to the womens’ tent and he flexes his hand thoughtfully. The sacks weren’t heavy and he’d always lifted them with ease in the past, but he’s unsure how easy they would be to leverage onto his shoulder; if the dull burn in his arm would cause him trouble.

It turns out he doesn’t get the chance to try. As he reaches for the closest maize sack, Lenny intercepts him with an overly loud “Hey Arthur!” which has the man righting himself in surprise. The lad is still in his union suit, dragging Sean behind him by the sleeve as the Irishman sways on his feet, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure he’s awake.

“We got these, don’t we, Sean?” Lenny encourages, giving Sean a shove towards the sacks as they stoop down to pick them up, so damn earnest that Arthur can’t find it in him to growl at them to get lost. He grits his teeth, bearing down on the agitation that simmers in his chest when Sean throws a sack over his shoulder and salutes him.

“You jus’ take it easy, big man, we got’ya,” he beams, lopsided and perhaps not entirely sober as he staggers after Lenny, laden with his own sacks. Expression darker than before, Arthur turns and stalks towards the lake, hand clenched into a fist at his side. As he passes behind the wagons, he falters when he spots Kieran by John’s tent, only to relax when he realises the man is lifting one of the hay bales to take to the horses. He feels foolish for his brief suspicion, and clears his throat as he approaches the man.

Kieran had lost the majority of his skittishness, but he’s still quick to drop the hay bale and turn to face Arthur. He didn’t like keeping his back to people Arthur had noticed, and he supposed there hadn’t been a great effort made on their part to foster a sense of trust with the former O’Driscoll, so the caution is understandable.

Arthur sidles up to him, nodding to the hay bales. “Y’need help with those, boy?” he asks gruffly.

“N-no sir, I’ve got these.”

His stammer had lessened when speaking to Arthur these days, and he at least looks at him now, which is probably how he notices the dangerous shift in mood. Lips pursing in irritation, Arthur exhales loudly through his nose, trying to manage the spikes of anger and frustration that were more intemperate than they used to be.

“B-but if you really don’t mi—”

“I don’t need your pity, O’Driscoll,” Arthur snaps.

Kieran flinches back, but to Arthur’s surprise he stands his ground, meeting Arthur’s eyes for the first time.

“Ain’t no pity, Ar— Arthur. Sir,” he corrects quickly, making Arthur snort. “Jus’ didn’t want you thinkin’ I needed help. O-Or that I wasn’t pullin’ my weight. But if you’d like to...” he gestures to the hay bales in open invitation, and Arthur nods his head.

“I’ll help,” he says shortly, and doesn’t protest when Kieran grabs the nearest hay bale and lifts it with a grunt to situate it on Arthur’s good shoulder. Arthur holds it in place, taking the weight of it with some relief, the coarse hay rustling against his ear as he makes his way to the horses.

He grabs the attention of the herd as soon as he passes the last tent between the camp and the grazing area, shrugging the bale from his shoulder with a huff of breath. “There you go, you eat up now,” he murmurs to the horses who come to lip at the hay.

He steps aside and quickly spots a looming dark figure ahead of him, nickering expectantly.

“You ain’t still sore at me, are ya, you great brute?” Arthur accuses him, only to have Fen stubbornly toss his head and paw at the ground with a giant hoof. Arthur chuckles lightly, pulling a peppermint from his satchel to the interest of the shire. “C’mon then. I ain’t comin’ to you.”

The horse snorts, but inevitably plods forward to nose at the sweet. “There we go, all forgiven,” he hums as it’s taken from his palm, and he can now run his hand down the horse’s broad neck. Fen’s velvet muzzle brushes down the front of his shirt and up again, starting to lip curiously at his folded sleeve. “Not used to that yet, are you?” He strokes gently down the snow white blaze between Fen’s eyes. “Don’t think I am either,” he admits, tensing when Fen’s head lifts, ears perked attentively.

Several meters away, Kieran drops down his own hay bale with a slightly breathless grunt, petting the different horses who wander close as he makes his way back to Arthur.

“Hello Fen,” Kieran greets tentatively, and Fen’s nostrils flare with an explosive breath as he turns away from the young man.

Arthur raises a brow. “Have I missed a falling out?” He asks, amused despite himself, “I thought you two liked each other.”

Kieran rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, knocking his hat forward as he did so. “We did— _do,”_ he amends quickly. “But, well… I was the one told to tie him up when you got back. He ain’t the easy forgivin’ type I guess.” Kieran shrugs helplessly, looking put out, and Arthur emits a short laugh.

“He ain't an easy bastard to love,” he agrees, “But he makes it worth it. One of the damn near bravest horses I’ve ever known.” He gets distracted running his hand down Fen’s muzzle, the stallion calm and placid under the attention. He sighs.

“It must be hard, s’pecially for someone like you…” Kieran says quietly, looking suddenly alarmed when Arthur turns to him with a frown.

“What d’you mean by that?” he demands.

Kieran looks at him wide-eyed before dropping his head to stare to the floor, shrugging weakly. “N-nothing, jus’... jus’ everyone treatin’ you different. Reckon y-you’ve never had people lookin’ at you like… like you wasn’t capable of somethin’,” he stammers.

Arthur frowns, staring hard at the boy who refuses to meet his eye again. “You’re right,” he agrees quietly, surprising Kieran. “An’ maybe they have a point, an’ I’m just bein’ an old fool.”

It’s Kieran’s turn to frown, looking almost puzzled by the answer. “I… I know it ain’t my place, sir, but I-I don’t see no reason why you gotta stop doin’ the things you used to. You jus’ gotta... change the way you do’um.”

Arthur mulls this over, flexing his shoulder which is starting aching quite significantly.

“I suppose we’ll see,” he mutters eventually, gently pushing Fen away towards the hay. He turns to leave, but only gets a few steps before he stops. “O’Driscoll.”

“ _Ain’t an O’Driscoll,”_ Kieran protests wearily.

“Peppermints.” Kieran looks at him blankly, and Arthur pulls his hand from his satchel and presses a peppermint into the man’s palm. “He’ll forgive you in no time,” he informs him before walking away.

* * *

Sitting on his cot with his forearm resting on his thigh, Arthur finds himself in a situation which has long worn out it’s charm. There’s very little room to spare in his tent as Miss Grimshaw unravels his bandages with Reverend Swanson overseeing. They come away clean, save for the smudges of salve and the slightest evidence of a near translucent seepage.

Once his stump is uncovered and cleaned, the Reverend steps in to look him over, and Arthur too risks a glance. It’s certainly a damn sight better than what it had been weeks ago — the residual limb no longer swollen and raw. There’s slight puckering where the stitches have been recently removed, but he’d been assured they would smooth out as the surrounding scabs healed over. Arthur knows as much — had had plenty of stitches in his time after stabbings and shoot-outs. But it wasn’t the unsightly puckering that made him sour.

Arthur goes back to looking down at his lap, idly twitching his remaining fingers.

“Well, Mr Morgan,” the Reverend says, thankfully sober. “Your friends got you to someone who knew what they were doing.” He steps back, allowing Arthur to shrug his shirt back on.

“How fortunate for me.” He can’t quite keep the sarcasm from his tone, and jerks when Miss Grimshaws bangs her hand unexpectedly on the side table and rounds on him.

“Now, I will have _none_ of that attitude, Arthur Morgan,” she says firmly, in a tone Arthur hasn’t heard since he was much, much younger — when he’d last given the gang a proper scare with a wound that had thankfully looked far worse than it was. “You could have died out there and we’d have been none the wiser. So it is _very fortunate_ that someone not only found you, but brought you _home,_ and I won’t have you implying otherwise!” She reprimands him, and Arthur hangs his head in shame.

“You’re right, Susan, I wasn’t thinkin,” he apologises, and Miss Grimshaw huffs.

“No, you wasn’t,” she agrees, but she’s calmer as she cleans away the bandages.

Swanson pats Arthur’s shoulder. “Get some rest, Mr Morgan,” he recommends, and Arthur sighs, slumping back onto his cot after the two have seen themselves out.

* * *

Arthur’s pencil scratches quietly against the page as he reclines in his cot, working by the high-afternoon sun shining through the canvas roof.

The two pages are a scrawling mess of sketches that cluster and overlap unlike his usual observational drawings — morbid depictions of his severed arm caught in a trap, being eaten by a bear, left in the wastebasket of a doctor’s surgery, hanging from a noose. The last one had been a product of his drunk, sordid mind, but that isn’t to say he hadn’t snorted when he rediscovered it the morning after.

He finishes the rough crosshatch-shading of his latest sketch and turns the page, expelling a long breath. His pencil hovers over the crisp new sheet, and after a moment of consideration he begins to write.  
  


> _Bandages were removed today. Managed to upset Miss Grimshaw good and proper in the process. But she’s right, I should be grateful I’m alive, even if sometimes it’s hard to feel that way. The injury is almost all healed now, although Reverend Swanson has warned me that it’ll be tender for a while yet, and ~~amputay~~ amputations can still hurt even years after. Something about nerve damage, how the nerves are cut and left like loose threads with no way to know where the arm’s gone. Can’t say I don’t feel the same some days. But maybe that’s why I get the pain _— _like my arm is still there and hurting. Think I would have preferred to go against John’s wolves without my gun than this._
> 
> _Been trying to get back to working around camp. Mostly gotten over all that anger and ~~laziness~~ indifference from weeks back, though it comes back now and then. When I can’t do something simple, or people think I can't do something at all. But when that anger’s gone I don’t like what’s left behind. I fear their concerns are real and I’ll not be able to help the gang like I once did. If that’s the case... then I don’t know what good I am to them anymore._
> 
> _I suppose I worry about what Dutch thinks most of all. Him and Hosea have been fighting a lot lately. They’ve been trying to keep it hidden, but it’s hard not to see them avoiding each other when it’s bad. Still not sure what it’s about. Hosea’s been happy to see me around camp more. I think Dutch is too, but I don’t see him much as of late, always seems too busy to talk for long. But that doesn’t stop Micah always being within bootlicking distance._
> 
> _I can’t wait to be riding and pulling my weight again, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see what the future holds for me.  
> _

  
Arthur taps his finger against the page thoughtfully, letting his head fall back against the munitions wagon.

His body’s taut with a nervous energy, thrumming deep through flesh and bone, and Arthur blows out a frustrated breath. He’d hoped writing in his journal would be an adequate outlet, but as his skin starts to feel clammy with agitation he closes the book and sets it under his pillow, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“Arthur?” Looking up, he’s surprised to find Hosea standing by his tent. He doesn’t know how long the man’s been standing there “Fancy a game of dominoes, my boy?”

Relieved and eager for the distraction, Arthur nods. “Sure, you run out of willing victims this early?” he smirks, calming as the anxious sensations start to abate and shrink back into the cerebral crevices they’d crawled from. Standing from the cot, he follows the older outlaw to the table.

Hosea chuckles good naturedly. “You know how it goes, Arthur, never target the same mark twice.” “Unless they’re a fool,” Arthur murmurs, to which Hosea smirks.

“S’why Bill won’t play with me anymore.”

Arthur snorts, chuckling along with Hosea as the older man shuffles the dominoes and they pick out their seven tiles, the easy silence giving way to contemplation.

After a moment of thought, Arthur plays the first tile.

“It ain’t Dutch’s fault, y’know” he says lightly as he sits back, keeping his eyes on the table. Hosea hums, like he’s been anticipating this discussion all along, and plucks a tile from his stand to set it down.

“I know.”

Arthur runs his finger along the edge of his next tile before he places it. “People been hearin’ you arguin’ about it.”

“We’ve been _disagreeing_ on a few things lately,” Hosea corrects. “Can’t even mention those inbred hicks without putting him in a snit,” he sighs, playing his next tile.

That surprises an amused huff out of Arthur as he considers his next move. “How’s that going, anyhow — the plan with the Grays and the Braithwaites?”

“It isn’t. Not anymore,” Hosea informs him, making Arthur finally look up.

“Why? Did something happen?” he asks seriously. He hasn't heard anything circle the camp regarding a job gone wrong, and even if there is this misguided inclination to shelter Arthur right now, there is no controlling a rumour once it’s on the wind.

Hosea hesitates, and Arthur impatiently plays a tile in the lull.

“Something happened,” Hosea confirms, lips pressed in a firm line, and he suddenly looks much older, more drawn and tired. “Something very serious happened to one of our own while we were playing with fire, and it was the wake-up call I needed to really _look_ at what we were getting into.”

It takes Arthur no time at all to figure out who and what Hosea is referring to, and it brings the intimate heat of his frustration surging back to the surface.

“Christ, Hosea, these plans shouldn’t be called off because of me. It was my own stupid fault and I’m already hindering the gang enou-”

“The _who_ and the _why_ are irrelevant, Arthur,” Hosea interjects sharply, cutting his impending tirade short. “It’s that it _happened._ And as a _leader_ of this gang I knew I had to be more certain before throwing our lot in with these families. We were getting careless and overconfident over little more than a rumour.”

Hosea goes quiet for a moment, calming down as he considers his tiles. Although Arthur doubts it’s the dominoes occupying his thoughts, he bows his head in silence, suitably cowed. He loves Hosea like a father, and respects him just as much, but to his shame, he realises Hosea’s due respect as their _co-leader_ is often overlooked.

Arthur blows out a breath, begrudgingly accepting the old man’s reasoning. “Was there even any gold, at the end of all this?” he asks.

Hosea frowns, then slowly shakes his head. “I truly don’t know, but I don’t think so. At least none that hasn’t been lost beyond recovery.”

Arthur sighs heavily. At least it now made more sense as to why Dutch wasn’t around as much. The man was gregarious, optimistic, and tenacious, but he was certainly not known for his forbearance when he felt he was being undermined. Which is unfortunate when his strong guiding hand is sorely missed.

He’s brought back to the present by Hosea clearing his throat, raising his eyebrow expectantly. Arthur gives their game a quick glance over and scratches his chin with a rasp of stubble.

“How far did you get with them, in the end?”

“The last job was selling stolen horses. You hear about that?” Hosea asks.

“Yeah. John was runnin’ that, weren’t he?”

“Yes, with Javier and Lenny. Stole the Braithwaites’ prized horses and were told they could get five thousand dollars for them. Came away with six.”

“Six thousand?” Arthur whistles, tapping his next domino on the table a few times before placing it down.

“No, six hundred,” Hosea mutters with a wry smile. Arthur snorts.

“Boy always was a gullible fool,” he mutters, though it’s more fond that he’d like to admit. He’s briefly distracted as Cain’s head appears in his lap, and he scratches the dog affectionately behind the ears.

“We were on the threshold of burning the Gray’s tobacco fields for Catherine Braithwaite before I called it off.” Hosea explains as he places a tile. “Was going to have you and Sean on it, but with things as they were that wasn’t possible.” “Couldn’t Charles or John have done it with ‘im?” he frowns, taking his turn. He knew why Sean was a prime choice, the man was like a fire-spitting lizard — something inevitably got torched wherever he happened to go.

Hosea shakes his head, playing another domino. “No, not with Sean — the boy is eager but messy…” A pause. “He looks up to you like no one else, you know,” Hosea muses as if it’s an afterthought, and Arthur snorts derisively. “I’m serious. It’s what convinced me you’d be the best one to go with him. Obviously that wasn’t an option in the end, but even then… I don’t know.” He plays his next tile in a brief, thoughtful silence. “It felt like there was no turning back, after that, and I didn’t think it was worth the risk.”

Arthur frowns at that, playing one of his two remaining tiles. It was frustrating and humiliating to think that his accident had affected their on-going schemes, inadvertently or not, but he had never been one to doubt Hosea’s instincts — even if he’d started to shy on the edge of caution more often in his advancing years than Dutch tended to.

But even then, he isn’t accustomed to Dutch and Hosea being so at odds with each, especially when they’re in a situation with the law unlike anything they’ve ever experienced before. Months, perhaps even weeks prior, they could have simply hopped several county lines and been lost to the open plains. Instead, they were being _chased_ across the country with a relentlessness that would sooner or later start to wear them down. He also couldn’t help but feel unease at the prospect of being a significant but unwilling wedge being driven into the ever widening divide between his fathers.

Hosea places his second to last domino and Arthur waves his hand, both to clear his thoughts and to signal that he couldn’t play his last tile. A doubt weighs heavy and bitter on his tongue, and it feels blasphemous to even think, let alone give voice to such a faithless question, but Arthur finds himself looking at Hosea almost beseechingly.

“Do you believe Dutch can still get us out of this? Get us somewhere safe and free?”

Hosea sighs, looking up from the table to meet Arthur's gaze, and it’s both reassuring and terrifying to see the same uncertainty reflected back.

“To be honest, I don’t really know anymore. Lately it feels like with every step forward, we’re courting more and more danger.”

A tense quiet falls between them as they stare down at the dominoes laid out before them, each with one tile left to play — Hosea’s turn.

“Arthur.”

He looks up, and Hosea fixes him with a serious look that’s softened by the weariness embedded in every line aging his face.

“I want you to promise me that you’ll keep looking out for the others, and you’ll stay strong for them, no matter what happens.”

Arthur nods, slow but resolute. “Of course, no missing arm is gonna to change that.”

“That’s my boy,” Hosea murmurs, plucking his last tile and placing it on the table with a gleam to his eye. “Domino.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise things are dragging on a little bit without much action, I hope it's not getting too boring! But we're slowly getting there -_^'
> 
> Comments & concrit are always welcome and appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read along so far and left comments and kudos, it really means a lot to know you're enjoying the story so far! I realise it's probably been a bit slow since the first chapter, but I promise _shit definitely happens in the next chapter_ , so stay tuned!

“That’s it, stand steady,” Arthur murmurs under his breath, more out of habit than necessity as Fen continues to stand steadfast beside him. Positioned to the shire’s right, Arthur takes hold of the saddle horn and lifts his foot into the stirrup, sparing the saddle a brief glance. There are days he thinks he’s come to terms with his impairment, but then there are moments like these, when he’s still unable to dispel the pull of an age-old habit to grip the cantle with his other hand in preparation to mount.

With a huff of breath, Arthur hops up and bears his weight down on the stirrup, hauling himself up and throwing his leg over the stallion’s back before he can pitch too far forward. With the barest wobble, he drops into the saddle.

Fen lets out little more than a whuff of air, and Arthur blows out a matching breath. “Maybe I should’ve sold you for that little morgan in Valentine after all,” he muses, and Fen tosses his head with an explosive snort. Arthur huffs out a laugh. “I’m just kiddin’, you sensitive bastard,” he smirks, rubbing the stallion’s neck in reward for his patience.

He nudges Fen into a light walk, holding the looped reins in a loose fist. He lets his mount wander freely in a lazy circle, rolling the ache from his shoulder from the two hours he’d spent mounting the shire that morning. Next he flexes his fingers, making sure he can move each of them in turn as his thumb keeps the reins pinned to his palm. He tests his control by giving the right rein a slight tug with his index and middle finger.

Fen obeys immediately, beginning to circle to his right.

“Good” he praises softly, relaxing his hand around the reins again. “Now, let’s see how quick you learn, boy.”

Sliding his right leg forward, Arthur presses his calf against Fen’s side just behind his shoulder, feeling the stallion oppose the instruction only for a moment before he turns back into his original left-turn circle. Bringing his left leg behind Fen’s ribs, he presses in and uses the slightest pressure on the reins to lead them into a tight forehand turn. After two passes, Arthur relaxes his legs and lets Fen widen the circle again. When he takes his legs off the horse’s sides, the shire comes to an immediate stop.

Arthur grins, pleased. “Good boy,” he rumbles, ruffling his hand along the stallion’s neck. With a slight squeeze of his heels Fen steps back into a walk, another squeeze and his pace picks up into a loping trot.

He murmurs encouragement under his breath, Fen’s ears twitching back as he maintains his steady pace. Feeling the powerful stride of the horse beneath him, every sure-footed step and every flex of sturdy muscle, is freeing in a way Arthur can’t articulate. It’s as if Fen bears the weight of his burdens for every moment he’s in the saddle, and even if he could never fish or bounty hunt again, it almost seemed ok as long as he still had this.

As Fen trots unguided, Arthur surveys the camp from his new vantage point. He can see Bill feigning sleep in the shade of a nearby tree, and John lingers not twenty feet away, brushing southern-red trail dust from Old Boy’s coat and instructing Kieran to see to his saddle. He can sense John watching him every now and then from beneath his hat, and Arthur can’t help but feel a prickle of annoyance as he pointedly ignores him. But even while it irks him to be supervised, he supposes it’s warranted, given the first time he’d tried to mount Fen he’d almost toppled right over the other side of the big bastard.

At least they were keeping their distance and _trying_ to be subtle.

“C’mon, boy, let’s try a few more,” he murmurs, sitting back in the saddle and taking the pressure off Fen’s sides so the horse slows to a walk. From there, Arthur uses his leg cues to direct the stallion, relying on his reins as little as possible as he takes them through steadily more intricate turns and manoeuvres.

Another quarter hour later and they both come to rest, Arthur hooking the reins on the horn and giving the stallion a firm rub over his neck and shoulder with a rumble of praise. He pulls an apple from his satchel and takes a large bite from it before offering the rest to Fen, who takes it from Arthur’s outstretched hand with a brush of velvet lips.

“‘Atta boy.” His hand falls still on his mount’s neck as he hears the muted sound of hooves approaching camp, and Arthur straightens in the saddle, frowning as a familiar dainty arabian trots in alongside a white faced Fox Trotter. The two men astride their mounts are deep in conversation, until they spot Arthur atop his towering shire.

“Arthur! Just look at you, my boy, it’s like you never left the saddle!” Dutch calls, bringing The Count closer, their two horses briefly bumping noses in acknowledgment of each other.

“Dutch,” Arthur returns with a nod, feeling warmed by the man’s acknowledgement, “Takin’ some gettin’ used to, but Fen’ll see me right.”

“I have no doubt, he’s something special.”

Baylock ambles up alongside The Count’s flank, and it’s a selfish little part of Arthur that speaks up when it looks like Dutch is going to continue on with Micah.

“We ain’t had much time to talk, lately.”

Micah snorts before Dutch can reply, folding his arms across his saddle horn and leaning forward with a leery grin. “That’s because everyone’s been _busy,_ cowpoke, havin’ to pull extra weight these days. There just don’t seem to be enough hands to go around.”

“Alright, that’s enough, boys,” Dutch cuts in when Arthur bares his teeth in a snarl, grip tightening on the pommel of his saddle. Fen shifts beneath him, expelling a deep breath at the signs of agitation from his rider. “How about we go for a ride?” Dutch offers, “just the two of us,” he clarifies when Arthur’s eyes flick briefly to Micah.

“What about our plans, Dutch?” Micah interjects, a scowl overriding his usual sneer.

“It can wait. Arthur’s right, it’s been far too long since we’ve had time for a proper talk.” He looks to Arthur who nods in agreement, bearing the slightest smile as Dutch turns The Count back towards the road with Arthur following a step behind.

They ride in easy silence for a while, Arthur taking the time to enjoy being out of the camp for the first time in weeks. They trot along the winding country roads away from the town of Rhodes and the family estates, the expanse of Flat Iron Lake reaching out to their left with rolling fields and copses of trees to their right.

“So what’s been keeping you so busy lately?” Arthur asks after a time, a genuine curiosity prompting the question. It was rare he didn’t know the current affairs of the men, of Dutch’s latest design, and it’s with a sense of displacement he pleads for any scraps Dutch will offer him.

“You know how it is, Arthur, things don’t just stop when something bad happens,” he replies carefully, and Arthur barely resists looking at his father-figure, unsure how to take his reply. He instead fights to keep his focus fixed ahead.

“‘Course, Dutch,” he acknowledges, frowning as the words sound flat to his own ears. But it seems to elicit a reaction when the other man regards Arthur with an expression he can’t fathom, before it’s clearing into a smile and Dutch is chuckling.

“Of course you do. I apologise, my boy, I’m being quite the fool,” he says jovially. He takes in an exaggerated breath as if relishing the humid, soupy air, and continues: “We’re scoping out the manor houses. We’ll find out soon enough if there’s indeed any gold to be had.”

Arthur’s frown deepens.

“Didn’t Hosea call all that off — sayin’ we wasn’t havin’ any more involvement with the families?” he asks cautiously. Dutch scoffs, and Arthur can imagine the eye-roll that likely accompanies the sound.

“We certainly have our opinions on how the situation should have been handled, but I am not in the habit of throwing away weeks of good, worthwhile work. This could be good for us, Arthur, it could have us set for the rest of our lives. Security and _roots,_ my boy. Imagine!”

Arthur has imagined, many times in fact, the thought of finally finding the place they would all call home. But over the years it has come to feel as elusive as their last score, something wistful and intangible, only ever found in Dutch’s many reverent speeches. Arthur isn’t as prone to being swept up in Dutch’s boundless optimism as he once was, and he wonders if it’s traitorous to harbour this pessimism while still devoutly heeding Dutch’s direction.

“...Does Hosea know?”

Arthur knows the answer as soon as Dutch goes silent and reigns The Count to a stop. He brings his calves away from Fen’s side and the shire halts in step.

“Arthur, you’re not really trying to play Hosea and I against each other, are you?” He looks almost _disappointed._ Arthur resists the urge to lower his head, but he’s no less chastened by the accusation.

“‘Course I ain’t, Dutch,” Arthur protests. “It just feels like there’s two different ideas goin’ on, an’ with the heat that’s on us from those Pinkertons...”

“There may be different ideas right now, but there will only be one plan. There has only ever been one plan. We don’t have the luxury of playing things safe, and I am doing my very best to keep everyone together while I figure out how to get us out of here. Can you at least trust me to do that?”

“I’ll always trust you Dutch, you know that,” Arthur sighs, his shoulders dropping in defeat. He holds Dutch’s stare as the man seems to search his face for any signs of doubt, relaxing when he finds none. Sitting back in his saddle, Dutch huffs a humourless chuckle under his breath and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, son,” he says softly. “I’ve not made time for you these past few weeks, especially after everything you’ve been going through.”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck as he stares down at his saddle, inwardly grimacing with the realisation Dutch thought he sought comfort — perhaps he did? He can feel his face warm with embarrassment as he shrugs. “Weren’t your fault, Dutch. Besides, I ain’t a kid no more.”

“You’re not,” Dutch agrees, “but I know I haven’t been around and it looks like I haven’t been worried about you.” He waves a hand, stopping Arthur’s protests. “But I have been, Arthur. Every day you were missing, I worried. And when you were finally brought back to us, I sat with Hosea that first night and prayed that you would fight through. I prayed every night until you were back on your feet... I want you back at my side, Arthur, more than anything else.”

Shame forgotten, Arthur stares long and hard at his father-figure, his throat feeling suddenly tight as Dutch holds his gaze. The sentiment was said so ardently and resolute that it was reminiscent of one of Dutch’s grander, more evocative speeches. The ones which had swept Arthur up as a boy and for the first time encouraged him to _believe_. Hearing those words, that affirmation, floods Arthur with such pleasure and relief that it’s almost overwhelming. He can only nod his head with a small, pleased smile.

“I will be,” he assures Dutch, his voice thick.

With a proud smile, Dutch nudges The Count onwards with Arthur mimicking the action and falling dutifully into step beside him.

“I know you will, son.”

* * *

Arthur is standing on the shore of Flat Iron Lake, drinking his morning coffee when his name is called in a high, excited voice. He looks along the beach to see Jack running as fast as his legs will carry him, Cain bounding at his heels and Abigail trailing behind, holding up the bunched blue fabric of her skirt.

Grinning wide, Arthur stoops to put down his cup and intercepts the boy when Jack throws his arms around his neck, squeezing tight. He releases Arthur after a moment and stumbles back, giving Arthur enough time to divert Cain with a sweep of his hand before the dog can try and jump on him too — thankfully he veers back towards the water, nose skimming across the sand.

“Look, Uncle Arthur!” Jack puffs, his cheeks pink from the sun and his short sprint. He holds up his hand to show-off the shell he’s clutching, and Arthur shifts onto one knee so he can remain at the boy’s level. It’s a mollusk shell from what he can tell, pinkish-brown with a conical shape and rounded segments.

“That’s mighty pretty, Jack. Are you gonna look for more?”

The boy shakes his head as Abigail finally catches up with them. “No, mama says I can only have this one unless I put back some of my rocks,” he mutters petulantly, and Arthur chuckles.

“Well, your mama knows best,” he reasons, glancing up at Abigail to see the gentle curve of her smirk. He pushes himself back to his feet, ruffling the boy’s hair fondly while pretending to use him as additional support. Jack squirms under his palm, giggling out a _‘hey!’_ of protest.

Abigail rests a hand on Jack's shoulder and gently smoothes her fingers through his tousled hair. The boy’s giggles fade and he looks up with a hopeful expression, fidgeting with his shell.

“Uncle Arthur, can we go fishing again?”

The question catches him off guard, and Arthur exchanges a brief look with Abigail who looks more apologetic than surprised. “I… I thought you didn’t much like fishing, Jack?” he queries, and the boy wrinkles his nose.

“I don’t mind it… but I liked that we did it together.”

Arthur’s shoulders drop with his sigh and he scratches his beard. “I’m not…” He hesitates, mulls over his options, then sighs again. “I can’t right now,” he settles on.

The boy peers up at him, looking put out, and Arthur feels like he’s kicked a puppy. “But I-”

“Jack,” Abigail interrupts him, gentle but firm, “why don’t you go find Sean? I’m sure he’ll play knights with you,” she encourages. The boy mutters a quiet ‘alright’ and traipses into camp with a light nudge to his shoulder. Cain, ever diligent, follows after him.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail apologises immediately, breaking the brief but heavy silence left in Jack’s wake. “I told him not to bother you with things like that…”

Arthur brushes it off. “Boy don’t mean no harm,” he assures. Abigail brushes a lock of hair behind her ear with a look of discontent.

“He missed you… When you was recoverin’. Kept asking for you, but I didn’t know if…”

“You don’t need to explain, Abigail. I wouldn’t’ve wanted the boy to see that neith-”

“It weren’t that at all!” Abigail interjects, frowning at him with an intensity he doesn’t like. Abigail is a shrewd woman, and it isn’t just her hopeless excuse of a man she could make feel three inches tall. “It’s just…” she lets out a breathy noise that’s almost a laugh. “I didn’t know how you was, an’ bringin’ in a child who could say God knows what. I didn’t wanna risk upsettin’ you.”

Arthur shakes his head, despite the slightly wry curl to his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ to be upset about, just a fact of life now.”

He can feel Abigail’s eyes on him, burning into the side of his face.

“So you’re sayin’ you ain’t hurtin’ no more, just ‘cause you ain’t in bandages?” she queries, her tone telling Arthur just how foolish she thought he was. He shrugs helplessly, thinking his instinctive response of ‘it don’t matter’ wouldn’t be well received.

Abigail sighs, rolling her eyes as she turns to look out over the water with him, standing so close that their arms would have brushed once upon a time.

“John was real worried, you know — when they couldn’t find you.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh, surprised by the jump in conversation. “Oh, was he now?” he murmurs, humouring her.

Abigail smiles, and says with a soft, almost fond knowingness: “Yeah, he was.” Then she turns away and makes her way into camp after Jack and Cain, leaving Arthur watching her with an uncertain bemusement.

* * *

Arthur busies himself with various chores around camp that day, but that’s not to say he isn’t acutely aware of the little brown eyes that watch him attentively from behind wagons and tents.

Jack is crouching beneath Pearson’s table, peering out from behind one of the crooked legs, when Arthur’s carrying a bucket of water from the lake to the cook’s wagon. Cain’s presence at his side is a definitive give away, even without the dog’s confused groans which the boy tries fruitlessly to shush. He pretends not to see them as he passes, eyes averted with a repressed smile. It’s the knowledge that the boy is nearby that has Arthur biting down on his curse when he knocks the bucket while tipping its contents into the washbasin, ending up with water sloshing down his leg for his efforts. He drops the bucket with a dark mutter, scrubbing his hand over the sizable wet patch down his thigh before he gives up and trudges towards the maize sacks.

**\---**

Jack disappears a few times throughout the day — whenever Abigail called for him or it was time for him to sit with Hosea for his lessons. As Arthur eats his lunch, he watches on fondly from his place by the campfire as Hosea and Jack sit hunched over a book, mouthing along with the words.

It doesn’t feel like all that long ago it was a scrawny twelve-year old John Marston in that exact same position, and the thought has Arthur smirking, eyes skating over to the man in question. Whittling by the fire with his brow creased in concentration, John pauses and glances up, looking puzzled to find Arthur grinning at him.

Snorting in amusement and offering no explanation, Arthur goes back to his stew.

**\---**

Jack’s back to his quiet observation later that afternoon when Arthur’s shifting hay bales, though he doesn’t notice the boy as he grudgingly struggles with the task. The bales are easier to transport on his shoulder these days, but he’s yet to rebuild the strength needed to position them without assistance, so he’s forced to tuck them beneath his arm as best he can. It works, though it’s far from ideal when has to stop half-way through camp at the table to adjust his grip on the slipping bales.

After dropping the last of the hay amongst the horses, he picks up one of the repeaters set aside for guard duty. He hasn’t touched any of the larger weapons since before his accident, and by now curiosity about whether he’ll be able to handle one again has gotten to him. He nods to Charles who sits on an upturned crate nearby, fletching arrows in the solitude provided by the wagons at his back.

“Hope I’m not disturbin’ you.”

Charles shakes his head minutely, fixing a feather to the arrow shaft. “Not at all.”

He can feel Charles watching him, unobtrusive as he is, as he takes the weapon by the grip. Finger set against the trigger, but not hooked around it, he lifts the gun up, grunting irritably when he feels the nose drop. He firms his hold

“How’s it feel?” Charles asks. Arthur brings the butt of the repeater to his shoulder, thinking over his answer.

“Strange,” he sighs. “Unbalanced with nothin’ to support it. I feel like I could aim better with it away from my shoulder, until the kickback sends the bullet in whichever direction.”

He clucks his tongue in irritation as Charles hums thoughtfully.

“Wouldn’t hurt to get some practice in. We could head out in the next couple days — do some target practice, maybe try hunting, what do you say?”

Arthur gives it some consideration, slinging the repeater over his shoulder.

“Sure,” he agrees, before bowing his head with a rueful chuckle. “Though I reckon you’ll be the one catchin’ dinner with that bow of yours — I’ll scare off every animal within two miles if I try with this.”

Charles hums in acknowledgement, a consoling sound for when words were useless. With no conceivable way to compensate for his lost arm, the inability to fire a bow anymore is one of Arthur’s most poignant losses, and he can see how the thought subdues Charles, not with sympathy, but empathy.

“You might not get back to what you were before, but you’ll learn to manage that thing better than you think you will,” Charles assures him, and Arthur makes a noncommittal sound.

“We’ll soon find out,” he responds, letting his hand fall to rest on his gun belt.

**\---**

Arthur notices Jack when he’s chopping firewood.

He’d gotten more practice since his first attempt, and was now comfortable picking up the axe during the quieter times of the day. He could split the logs with relative consistency, but the chore still left Arthur more exerted than before — his skin slick with sweat and breathing more ragged than he cared for.

Wiping a trail of moisture from his cheek, he lays out the canvas and gathers the wood into a messy pile, then fumbles the handles together. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he curses as several pieces of timber slip loose and clatter to the floor.

“I can help, Uncle Arthur!” Jack calls as he runs over, and Arthur’s instinctive response to deny the help stalls in his throat. He grunts in acknowledgement, nodding to the few pieces of firewood that had fallen.

“Alright, Jack. Think you can carry those for me? Be careful of splinters,” he warns as Jack bends down to scoop up the logs, embracing them in a tight bearhug. He can barely get his arms all the way around them, and Arthur has to smother an amused smile as Jack follows him to the campfire.

“Here?” Jack asks.

Arthur nods. “That’s it, good lad,” he says as Jack drops the wood, and Arthur shrugs the sling from over his shoulder to dump the remaining logs. Kieran would move a few to the scoutfire later.

Stretching the stiffness from his neck, he spots Abigail approaching with two dishes in hand.

“C’mon Jack,” she beckons, sitting herself neatly on the pelt-covered log with her plate balanced on her lap. The boy joins her, settling on the log at her side and taking his plate onto his lap as well.

Arthur is about to go get his own when John arrives, also carrying two dishes.

“Feelin’ hungry, Marston?” he huffs, caught somewhere between amused and annoyed, but his disapproval is caught short when the younger man holds out the second plate to him.

“Figured it would save you doublin’ back if I just picked yours up. Was comin’ over here anyway,” John shrugs, and they both pretend they don’t know the excuse is simply for the sake of Arthur’s pride. They knew each other far too well to believe any different.

“Alright, ‘preciate it,” he nods, taking the offered dish and sitting on one of the crates around the fire. John sits on the end of the log to his left, Jack in between him and Abigail, and they’re soon joined by Tilly, Hosea, Swanson, and Javier. Quiet conversations pick-up around him, and Arthur is content to eat and listen to the peaceful ambience without contributing.

“What’s wrong, Jack? It’s chicken, your favourite,” he hears Abigail say. She’s looking down at the boy with concern while Jack stares silently into his food, doing little more than moving it around the plate.

“You look like you got the whole world on your shoulders there, son,” John comments through his own mouthful, and Arthur reckons instilling table manners will be solely on Abigail’s shoulders. Jack’s frowning when he finally looks up, seemingly perplexed by the comment, but those dark eyes - so much like his father’s - soon fall on Arthur. The level of contemplation on the boy’s face looks out of place on someone so young.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” he asks gently, and the boy looks away briefly, chewing on his lip as if he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble for voicing his thoughts.

“Why did you sell your arm, Uncle Arthur?” he asks timidly, looking up as the conversation around them tapers off, but he’s looking solely at Arthur now.

Arthur briefly meets Abigail’s eye and can see her waiting for a cue to intervene. Instead he looks back to Jack, waiting patiently for the boy to continue. “We can’t go fishing anymore, a-and you can’t shoot or carry things like you used to. An’ sometimes you look really sad, ‘specially when Micah says mean things...” He seems to grow more upset as he rambles, and Arthur’s frown deepens. “Don’t you miss it? Was it something really important, what you sold it for?” he implores at last, pinning Arthur with wide eyes that shine with an empathy only a truly innocent soul could hope to have.

And Arthur doesn’t know what to say to him. Doesn’t know what would make a young boy understand that sometimes bad things happened. What was worth losing an arm over, in the end?

“It was to help someone who needed helpin’,” a raspy voice supplies for him, and he turns to John in surprise - notices he isn’t alone in doing so. The man in question has set down his fork and is looking down at his son, expression solemn but honest. “An’ there ain’t nothing more important than that. Now, you wipe them tears.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the fire, a rumble of appraisal and pride, and Jack looks thoughtful but satisfied with the answer as he rubs his eyes with his sleeve. Abigail places a light hand on John’s arm, visibly proud as her smile drifts to Arthur. John glances at him too, somewhat apprehensive beneath the brim of his hat, but Arthur nods approvingly with a small quirk to his lips.

“Oooh my,” a voice drawls, and Arthur shoots a warning glare in Micah’s direction as the man slithers into the light of the fire. “Now isn’t that just a warm and fuzzy sentiment, Marston,” Micah scoffs in a pitched voice, bringing his arms up like he’s clutching a purse to his chest. “I’m sure we’re all _so proud_ of Morgan’s little heroics, but let’s not fill the boy’s head with fantasies, hmm? After all, there’s a biiiig difference between sacrifice and _sloppiness_. The fact is, kid, he got between some inbred hicks and their next plaything and he lost an arm over it.”

He stalks closer to Jack as he speaks, but before any of the men can intervene Abigail is on her feet, putting herself between Micah and her son. Her face is a scant few inches from his when she hisses: “I’d love to see what those Murfrees would do t’your gutted corpse, you spineless-”

Micah whistles, backing off with his arms raised, teeth bared in a feral grin.

“Now that’s a dark and twisted little wish, sweetheart. I like that in a woman...” His eyes flit briefly over Abigail’s shoulder as John rises to his feet in warning. With a short laugh he turns to saunter away, but pauses long enough to say: “I’m a survivor, but if I was the merciful kind, Morgan, I might’ve put a bullet in her head as I rode on by.”

“That’s enough out of you, Mr Bell” Hosea barks as Jack flinches where he sits, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. “There’s no need to say those things around the boy.”

“Just the truth, old man,” Micah smirks, tipping his hat mockingly to the group before he disappears around some tents, leaving a tense disquiet behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & concrit are always welcome and appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone reading along, I am _very_ happy to finally present some _d r a m a!_
> 
> Also, I'm sorry to disappoint anyone, but there won't be a chapter uploaded next week! I've lost a bit of ground on my chapters while doing a Secret Cupid art piece (which you'll be able to find on my @southernlynxx tumblr), so I'm using this upcoming week to catch up. Regular posting will resume the week after :D

“You all set?”

Arthur glances over as Charles approaches, leading Taima by the bridle. A hemp sack is fixed to the appaloosa’s saddle, clinking and clattering quietly as she shifts her weight from hoof to hoof. Arthur slides his repeater into its strap along Fen’s side and nods.

“All set,” he confirms, adjusting his hat before placing his foot in the stirrup and hoisting himself up onto Fen’s back with an ever-growing ease. Charles does the same, and once seated Arthur gestures towards the track, inviting Charles to lead the way.

“Oi, lads!”

They keep their horses at a leisurely amble, acting as if they hadn’t heard the Irishman’s shout. “I know you can hear me, y’miserable bastards. Where’re y’goin’?”

“Nowhere,” Charles replies shortly.

Arthur is doubtful Sean would have even heard the reply, until the man in question appears at Fen’s side, dwarfed by the shire as he trots alongside them like a stray.

“Yer terrible liars, so y’are. C’mon lads, is it a job? A bank? Stage? Hell, chicken ‘rustlin? We gonna get a friend for Javier while we’re at it?”

He can hear the cackle in the younger’s voice, and Arthur rolls his eyes with an irritable sigh. “We’re jus’ doin’ some target practice, maybe some huntin’,” he relents. Sean’s grin broadens.

“Can I come?”

“No,” Charles and Arthur answer in unison.

“Aw c’mon! Cut yer young an’ dashin’ protégé some slack!” he protests, still doggedly following along, looking more desperate as they venture into the trees and further from the camp. “Y-yer always sayin’, Morgan, I need t’practice my shot! _‘Couldn’t hit a barn door at three paces!’_ ” he imitates in Arthur’s gruff southern drawl. “You said it yerself!”

Arthur brings Fen to a stop with a sigh, and it takes Charles a second to follow suit, reigning Taima in and looking over his shoulder with a cautious but weary: “Arthur?”

Arthur drops his reins, running his hand over his face and briefly pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s an action that goes hand in hand with Arthur willing some deity he didn’t believe in to give him strength. “Boy has a point,” he mutters at last, looking at Charles until the other man sighs and nods his head in acquiescence. Sean whoops as the older outlaws finally concede.

“Go git your horse, boy, and be quick about it,” Arthur grunts. “An’ if you annoy me, we’ll be usin’ you as the target!” he yells after Sean as the man legs it back to camp for Ennis and his gun.

**\---**

With Sean now in tow, Charles leads them north east into Scarlett Meadows. They travel for close to an hour until Charles takes them off the road and up onto the rolling knolls towards a distinctive rock formation. It’s with some amusement Arthur realises he’d seen this very rock advertised at the Rhode’s train station as a local attraction.

“Didn’t know we was goin’ sightseeing,” he comments, nodding to Face Rock.

“Miserable lookin’ feller, ain’t he? A bit too _stony faced_ fer my likin’.”

Arthur bites back a groan and refuses to acknowledge the flat look Charles gives him as they stop on the slope scattered with rocks and stone ledges — perfect for placing bottles and cans. Pulling a bunch of empty containers from the sack he’d brought along, Charles sets the targets along the ridges and rocks overlooked by the formation on the crest of the hill. In the meantime, Arthur and Sean collect their guns — Sean his cattleman revolver and Arthur his carbine repeater.

“Alright.” Charles steps back and gestures for the men, having set up two different lots of targets to practice separately.

“And what about you?” Arthur asks, but Charles just smirks.

“I’m not the one who needs the practice.”

Arthur snorts, taking Charles’ rare boastful confidence for the banter it is as he takes up his position a good fifteen feet from the row of bottles. The morning sun is still low in the sky, and a light breeze rolling through the grass makes the temperature bearable as he eyes his targets. Weighing the repeater in his hand, Arthur raises it up to shoulder height and extends it away from his body like a pistol. He makes sure his elbow is loose as he curves his finger around the trigger, applying a light pressure.

A shot rings out, making Arthur jerk back and his head whip round. He glares at Sean’s back as the boy mutters an impassioned _‘bloody ‘ell’,_ all his targets still neatly aligned and untouched.

Shaking his head, Arthur looks down the sight of his repeater and pulls the trigger.

“ _Je_ sus!” Arthur’s forced to duck to avoid injury as the recoil sends the gun flying backwards, barely missing his shoulder as it lands in the grass a short distance behind him. It would have left an impressive bruise had it struck.

“Christ, Morgan, y’tryin’ to take yer head aff?” Sean smirks, and Arthur throws his arm out with an annoyed sound towards the man as he trudges over to his gun.

“Remember what I said, MacGuire,” Arthur growls warningly, picking up his repeater and ignoring the twinge in his wrist from the jerk of the recoil.

“You alright?” Charles asks from his seat on a nearby rock, and Arthur nods with a quiet grunt. “Braced against shoulder?” he asks instead.

“Braced against shoulder,” Arthur confirms, and does just that, tucking the short stock into his shoulder, elbow crooked so he can hold the grip.

It’s awkward, feeling the tip of the barrel dip without additional support, but when he pulls the trigger the gun at least remains in his hand, kicking back against his shoulder with a strong but manageable force.

The shot goes wide. Arthur isn’t even sure where it goes, truthfully, and none of the bottles fall, but the fact he manages to fire and keep hold of his gun at all is a start. So he spends the next few hours burning through his ammo, barely managing to clip a can by the time it’s well past noon.

Throwing down his gun with a grunt of frustration, Arthur stretches out his shoulder, trying to alleviate the ache from the repeated kickback. A bottle shatters to his left, and he and Charles both turn to see Sean punching a fist into the air.

“ _That’s_ the stuff! Dead Eye MacGuire showin’ you auld timers how it’s done!” he hoots. “Wait ‘til the boys at camp hear how I outshot the great Arthur Morg-”

In four succinct shots, three cans fall and a bottle shatters to pieces, and Sean turns slack-jawed to see Arthur with his smoking pistol at his hip. Holding the Irishman’s gaze, he shoves the gun back into his holster with a satisfied ‘hmph’.

“Aw c’mon, Morgan! Y’couldn’t give me _five bloody minutes_ o’ glory!”

“Learn to keep your trap shut, an’ maybe next time I’ll think about it,” he returns dryly.

“Perhaps we should call it a day,” Charles suggests, not without some amusement as he stretches from his perch on the rock. Hemp sack in hand, Charles begins clearing up their make-shift target range. Gesturing pointedly for Sean to help, they collect the remaining cans and bottles, ignoring the Irishman’s grumbled complaints about doing so. “Come, we can catch something for Pearson on the way back.”

Once again astride their horses, Arthur and Sean follow Charles’ direction without complaint.

**\---**

‘Something’ turns out to be a doe that Charles takes down with his bow, silent and efficient. Arthur manages to shoot a rabbit with his pistol when it makes the mistake of trying to flee down the road, and he’s somewhat pleased to find the carcass in a reasonable condition when he makes Sean fetch it.

It’s when they’re entering the forest cover into camp that Ennis happens to step on a squirrel. After a short argument, in which they insist Sean leave the trampled carcass alone, it gets reluctantly added to their spoils.

* * *

For the second time in as many weeks, Arthur wishes he’d bought that gentle little palomino morgan in Valentine.

“C’mon, you surly bastard, we both know you know how to do this!” he growls, only to be met with a churlish snort and a side-eye as Fen steps away from him. Arthur shakes his head, about to throw his hand up in defeat when Lenny calls his name.

He turns to see the young man jogging across the herd’s grazing area towards him. “Lenny, where’s the fire, boy?” Arthur greets him.

“Dutch is calling a meeting about the manor job,” Lenny informs him quickly, and Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. He hadn’t heard anything more about the surveillance they were doing on the families since his ride with Dutch, and his confusion must show.

“A couple’a Braithwaite boys jumped Bill and Micah when they went to talk to the Grays about a security job. Told them to get outta town if they wanted to keep breathin’ past Sunday.”

“I hope the Braithwaites got a few good licks in, at least,” he grunts, smacking Fen’s rump to send the stallion loping off to graze with the other horses. “A’right, let’s see what’s what.” Lenny nods in agreement and keeps pace at Arthur’s side.

“What were you doin’ just now, anyway?” Lenny asks with a nod towards Fen.

“Trying to get him to bow. He knows how to do it, just he only does it when it suits him,” he huffs, amused despite his struggles with the temperamental stallion. Lenny grins with him before their attention shifts ahead to Dutch’s tent, and Arthur can see the other men already gathered there.

“So what have you heard so far?” he asks,

“Not a lot,” Lenny admits. “Charles and Sean have been doing most of the casing on the Braithwaites-”

“Bet Charles loves that,” Arthur snorts.

“-and Micah and Bill were supposed to be casing the Grays, but were doin’ more than that by the sounds of it. From what I can tell, this run-in with the Braithwaite boys has painted a target on their backs.”

Arthur hums, unconvinced. He doubts Dutch would take such a sloppy intimidation tactic as proof the Braithwaites were harbouring gold, but it does prompt another question. “How’s Hosea takin’ all this?”

The fact he even has to ask stirs a feeling of guilt in him. It’s not that he’d avoided speaking with Hosea on the matter, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the knowledge that he was complicit in Dutch’s secrecy where Hosea was concerned.

“It’s not really my business, but he don’t seem happy about it,” Lenny admits. “But he still helped make a rough plan of the house from what little him and Sean had seen.”

Arthur nods with the slightest smile, because that certainly sounded like Hosea. He was no doubt irate about the whole thing, but he wasn’t the sort to withhold information out of pettiness, if only to ensure no one went in less prepared than they should be to get back out alive.

He and Lenny are the last to arrive outside Dutch’s tent and they discover everyone huddled around a small folding table, inspecting a rough floor plan sketched onto a scrap of paper. The other men look up as they approach, and Arthur returns the welcoming nods he receives from Javier, Charles, and John.

The group parts to accommodate them with a quiet hum of voices, and Arthur slots readily back into his place at Dutch’s side as if he’d never left. John nudges Arthur’s shoulder with his own, and he’s surprised but amused to have John flash him a sharp grin. If Arthur didn’t know better, he might have thought the greasy bugger had missed him.

Dutch clears his throat. It sounds strangely flustered rather than chiding, but it hushes the welcoming murmurs nonetheless. “Thank you for joining us Mr Summers. Arthur, it’s good to have you with us again.” He claps Arthur’s shoulder once, making him feel a little taller for it, then braces his hands on the table and leans forward with dramatic flourish.

“Now… as I was saying. Mr Summers, Mr MacGuire, once we get all those fools cleared out of the immediate area, you boys will be posted at the front door, our entry point,” he recounts, detailing their positions on the rough map.

“We goin’ in guns blazin?” Bill asks eagerly, boasting a black eye and split lip. It’s the same question Arthur is chewing on, because rolling up looking for a fight wasn’t their usual tactic, but nothing in the plan so far was indicating otherwise.

Dutch rears up with a righteous guffaw.

“If you think we’re gonna let some _inbred trash_ believe they can threaten us, that they can _intimidate_ us, you are very much mistaken,” Dutch announces, his index finger pointed for added effect. “They’ve got _gold_ , hidden somewhere in that manor — a manor built off the backs of _slaves_ and _dirty money_ , and we are going to _liberate them of it!”_

Several of the men roar in agreement, making Cain bark from somewhere near the shore. It takes a few moments for their voices to settle again and be overridden by the sounds of the camp and Uncle’s boorish snores.

“Good, I’m glad we’re in agreement. Now, again. Sean and Lenny, you’ll be out front watching for stragglers or back-up. Javier, Bill, and Charles, you’ll clear the bottom floor. Turn over every rug, tear down every painting. Micah and John, you boys will take the upper floor with me — we’ll make sure that weathered old bird sings. Everyone clear?”

There’s an awkward pause, a few uneasy glances.

Arthur clears his throat.

“You wantin’ me to follow you up, Dutch?” Arthur asks, and it doesn’t escape his notice the way Dutch stills. It’s the only indication he’s realised his oversight, realised what seemingly everyone else had picked up on right away by the way they’re restlessly shifting — that Arthur hadn’t been given a role.

It’s unusual. Uncomfortable.

“Ah, Arthur, my boy. No, no. I… I actually want you downstairs, with Sean and Lenny.”

The tension that follows is fierce and sudden. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Micah’s shit-eating grin on Dutch’s other side, insufferably smug even with a bruised cheek and crooked nose.

 _“Look out?”_ he barks, offended, and although only John makes a verbal noise of protest beside him, there’s varying degrees of shock easily read across the other mens’ faces. What only incites Arthur more, however, is the _acceptance_ of this swift demotion — the briefest pull at the corners of lips or the slightest nods which echo an understanding that seems to go over Arthur’s head.

He’d never considered himself much of a prideful man, not when years of hardship and loss and the thorns of his own sins have shredded such hubris from him, but he feels like he has been stripped down before these men, his brothers in arms, and _shamed_.

“It ain’t nothin’ personal, Arthur. Micah’s been involved in the planning from the beginning, it makes sense for him to run point.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, acutely aware he’d made no such fuss about running point _or_ Micah. “I ain’t been anywhere but here. Always been available,” Arthur growls quietly, trying not to bristle as the blame is put at his feet.

“And you were hurt. Still _are_ hurt-” “I ain’t hurt no more, Dutch, I’m _crippled,_ and that ain’t never gonna change. I can still ride. Still shoot. Still crack a safe!” he argues.

“Arthur, this is the plan and we’re sticking to it. Either you take look-out with Sean and Lenny, or you don’t come at all!” Dutch snaps, and it takes all of Arthur’s composure not to rock back as if struck. He stares hard at his father-figure, the sting of injustice dulled by the cool wall of indifference he quickly, desperately erects. Dutch was really giving him the ultimatum one would a child — be good, or you’ll be left at home.

They’re locked in a familiar stand-off — the kind that had been witnessed between Dutch and Arthur many times over the years, but never this heated. Never this tense and targeted that it makes Arthur feel like he’s been assessed and found lacking. He tries to find a fleck of apology - of regret or _sympathy_ \- in Dutch’s eyes, but all that stares back, as cold and uncompromising as the mountain face, is anger and _disappointment_.

Arthur exhales a long slow breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he says in a barely audible mutter, capitulating like he always did. “Have it your way, Dutch.”

* * *

“What a load of bullshit,” John hisses, dropping Old Boy’s saddle onto the half-bred’s back and pulling the girth strap taut. The horse exhales a gusty breath with the action.

“Quiet down, Marston,” Arthur mutters, glancing over the heads of the men who were all saddling up not far away. “Jus’ means I’ve something to prove.”

“Prove? You shouldn’t have to prove anything!” John bites back. It’s funny, because it’s the very thought that Arthur has been bitterly wrestling with for hours now, since the meeting had ended with a loaded tension that hadn’t eased even after the group had dispersed to prepare themselves. But something about John Marston of all people, the man to which everything came easy, saying he had nothing to prove was almost too much irony for him to handle..

“Why’re you so upset about this?” He asks, brow furrowed. John pauses, dark eyes meeting his briefly over Old Boy’s back before gives a careless shrug, still looking wound tight enough to shit a diamond.

“Jus’ don’t seem right, is all,” he frowns. “S’like you said, you can ride, shoot, n’ crack a safe jus’ fine.”

“It’s Dutch’s call an’ there ain’t nothin’ can be done about it. Now get on your horse,” he says tiredly, already done with the evening as he settles into Fen’s saddle. He looks out over the field in the late evening light as the other men follow suit.

“An’ what about him forgettin’ you was even comin’? Like we don’t need you!”

Something unpleasant twists in Arthur’s stomach and he snaps his head round to look at John, now mounted up beside him. But the younger man doesn’t seem to notice his reaction, too busy scowling down at his pommel. Thankfully, Arthur doesn’t have to answer.

“Alright gentlemen!” Dutch calls from astride the gleaming white beacon that is The Count. “Mr Smith has gone ahead to set a distraction for us, and it would be rude to keep him waiting. Let’s ride!”

With a thunder of hooves and restless whickers, they ride out of camp and through the countryside, bathed in the deep red light of the setting sun.

Despite how many times he’d ridden out amongst men with the taste of battle on their lips, the surge of power and adrenaline that courses through each of them in turn is thick and charged. Even at the tail end of their band of marauders, Arthur feels like he can hear every racing heart and feel every pinched knuckle bound in the reins. A quick glance to his left and he swears he can hear the long controlled breaths of John alongside him, poised over Old Boy like an apex predator, eyes dark with a primal lust for the hunt and a tenuous sliver of control. Arthur looks away.

The sky quickly darkens to a late night violet-blue as they near the estate, and just before the grounds come into view, an explosion roars from the rear side of the manor house.

As they turn onto the long tree-lined path, Arthur draws his pistol. The manor looms up in the distance, partially shrouded in a drifting fog and billows of fresh black smoke. The gated archway into the courtyard is unmanned, and they don’t hesitate to ride on through, the angry shouts of the Braithwaite men and scattered gunshots growing louder.

“Let’s take ‘em down, boys!” Dutch hollers as Charles, on the back of Taima, barrels around the house with several men giving chase on foot.

The evening erupts into rapid gunfire.

They pick off the men flocking around the house. And Arthur downs those stupid enough to run out the house and into his waiting bullets. After what can’t be more than minutes of shooting, there’s a stretch of quiet.

Circling Fen around with his pistol cocked, he looks around for any further movement outside the manor.

“We’re clear here, Dutch!” he shouts as Sean and Lenny draw up alongside him.

“Alright, everyone inside before they get their bearings an’ start shooting!” Dutch orders, quickly dismounting. The assigned gang members follow suit, kicking down the front door and fanning out with their guns aimed, several shots going off to clear out the last of the Braithwaite men.

“Sean, Lenny.” He rotates his hand when he has their attention, index and middle finger extended. The young men nod in understanding and split away in opposite directions, leaving the older outlaw to guard the front door as they walk the perimeter of the house.

He can still hear banging and shouts from inside the house — the scrape of furniture being pushed aside, the smashing of fine china, and paintings being torn from the walls in search of a safe. From upstairs the blast of a shotgun goes off, followed by shouts from Dutch, orders that are unclear until the balcony doors are thrown open and the noise spills out into the night.

“Everythin’ alright up there?” Arthur calls.

“Everythin’s _fine_ , Morgan. Focus on your _look out duty_!” Micah yells back from above, and Arthur’s grip tightens around his pistol in annoyance.

“Micah, will you shut the hell up and help me with this door!” comes John’s hoarse shout from around the corner, followed by the hasty thud and clink of spurred footsteps. With a crash that sounds like heavy furnishings being toppled, more gunfire and shouting erupts before it’s quickly suppressed, giving way to little more than muffled voices.

He turns Fen sharply with a leg cue as Charles, Javier, and Bill step out onto the porch.

“Any luck?” He asks them, and the men shake their heads.

“Just some fancy cutlery and trinkets!” Bill complains, and Arthur looks up at the balcony overhead with some consideration. He couldn’t be certain of his current standing within the gang as far as Dutch was concerned, but now he had a tentative opportunity to see how much of his authority had waned amongst the senior men, who had never once batted an eye at taking direction from him.

“Search the upstairs,” he orders. “Might as well get a headstart while they try and get information out of the Braithwaite woman.”

He waits for them to refute the order, but there’s only the briefest hesitation for Bill to complain about the additional work before they’re doing as instructed. Bill’s muttering gradually fades as they mount the stairs, and with them goes a fraction of Arthur’s doubt.

A tense silence takes over. The sounds from upstairs are muted and indistinct, so Arthur keeps his eyes focused on the sprawling dark estate. Sean and Lenny lap the house and vanish again, and Arthur gets more tense as the minutes pass.

Then something attracts his eyes, something warm and flickering like the glint of fireflies in the distance. When they turn onto the long path towards the house, Arthur recognises the flicker of burning torches.

“Dutch, we got company!” he bellows, jolting when he hears a single gunshot from the upper floor before Dutch, Micah and John are spilling onto the balcony.

“Let’s take down these sons of bitches,” Dutch shouts, voice breaking with acrimonious rage, and the Van Der Linde gang jump to the order. Another cacophony of bullets roar into the night as Charles, Javier, and Bill exit the house and take cover behind the roman columns, firing down the path to pick off men before they can find cover behind the trees.

“They’re coming from the right!” John shouts from above, and Arthur turns to see more figures and glimpses of firelight weaving through the orchard.

“On your horses!” Dutch orders as Arthur, Sean and Lenny keep several of the closest men pinned down behind the unhitched wagons in the courtyard. Sharp whistles cut between the gunfire and the horses are soon racing around the manor, stomping and whickering as the men mount and turn them towards the orchard, firing into the dark to give Dutch, John and Micah time to get downstairs.

John appears at Arthur’s side, already atop Old Boy as he fires towards the men blocking their path out of the estate, taking one down with a bullet between the eyes. There’s a sudden whoosh of fire behind them, and Arthur turns over his shoulder to see the interior of the manor house engulfed in hot, crackling flames, agitating the horses who cluster together.

“We’re ridin’ out of here!” Dutch instructs as the horses flank each other, high-stepping with the bark of gunfire all around them and the roar of the fire at their backs. The Count rears up and lunges forward as Dutch kicks the horse into action, and Arthur makes to do the same until the ghostly white flash of Baylock’s face whips past. Fen startles, and Arthur only just catches sight of the spurred boot lashing out towards them.

Fen rears, sudden and violent, and Arthur’s shout is drowned out by the shire’s deafening bray. He makes a grab for the saddle horn to keep his seat, but it’s a fraction too late when Arthur realises he’s tried to reach out with the wrong hand. Pistol still clenched tight in his fist, Arthur tumbles from the saddle and hits the ground hard with a wounded gasp.

For a long moment he lies there stunned and winded, the noise of hooves and gunfire and the heat of the fire overwhelming his senses. Then he hears a hoarse cry of his name through the chaos. Fighting the sudden heaviness in his limbs, Arthur scrambles to his feet just as Old Boy appears once again at his side. It takes him several seconds to process the situation, the words John is yelling at him that he can’t quite make out — from the unsettling feeling of disconnection, Arthur thinks he must have hit his head. Before he can puzzle through his thoughts, John’s grabbing him tight by the underside of his residual limb and hauling him up onto Old Boy’s hindquarters.

“Hold on!” John yells, voice strained with smoke and perhaps a hint of panic as they tear down the path after the other men. Arthur has enough sense left in him to brace his legs tight on Old Boy’s haunches as he fires off several shots, somehow still managing to take out a few of the stragglers as they leave the manor behind, thick acrid smoke rising into the air as the fire devours it all.

To Arthur’s relief, Fen soon appears out of the dark and keeps pace alongside Old Boy. The trees whip past as they race along the darkened roads which feel unnervingly quiet after the chaos at the Braithwaite estate, so it’s with some reluctance Arthur holsters his pistol in favour of holding tight to John’s shoulder. The wind whipping against his face is the coolest he’s felt in a long while, and it helps to clear some of the fog from his mind, even if a residual ache lingers at the back of his skull.

The other mounts are already milling around the stretch of open grass when they come upon the camp, and John reins his panting gelding to a stop at the hitching post.

They sit there for a moment, simply breathing and processing, Arthur still gripping John’s shoulder tight, when a boastful voice carries over from the camp. Just like that, an overwhelming fury surges to life in Arthur’s chest.

Arthur swings himself off Old Boy with an audible growl, ignoring John’s confused call of his name as he marches into the camp.

 _“Bell,”_ he snarls.

Whatever decorous bullshit the man is spewing immediately cuts off. Standing with an arm thrown out and a loose cluster of disinterested gang members around him, an arrogant curl finds its way to Micah’s lips. His dark eyes practically _gleam_ when he spots Arthur, and his voice has an almost sibilant quality when he speaks.

 _“Morgan,”_ he drawls. “How nice of you to join us. That was quite a fall you took back there.”

“You kicked my horse!” he accuses furiously, “that’s why he threw me!”

“Be careful what you’re implying here, Mor-” Micah jerks back as Arthur lunges for him, only just managing to evade the tightly balled fist aiming to break his nose. He’s not so slow to take advantage of the opening, however, and Arthur staggers back with a stunned grunt as Micah lands a blow to his jaw. The tables turn almost too quickly, and in his next breath Arthur is forced to defend himself against a barrage of fists, wheezing as they land against his exposed ribs as he tries to protect his face. “Ain’t so easy winning fights as a _cripple_ now, is it?” Micah sneers, and just over the man’s shoulder he can see figures swooping in to drag them apart.

A feral, festered resentment rears up inside him, muting the worried cries of the onlookers and turning the taste of blood in his mouth black. With a roar, Arthur ducks Micah’s next punch and throws himself forward. Planting his foot behind Micah’s, he ploughs his shoulder into the man’s chest and sends him sprawling onto his back.

Any air remaining in Micah’s lungs is forced out when Arthur drops heavily onto his chest, bringing his legs in tight and pinning Micah’s arms useless to his sides. Without a flicker of hesitation Arthur raises his fist and brings it down hard across Micah’s face. Once, twice, until blood is pouring from Micah’s newly rebroken nose and wetting his moustache.

Fisting the collar of the man’s shirt, he lifts Micah’s head from the ground, holding his hateful stare. He brings his face in close until he can feel Micah’s rancid breath against his skin.

“If you even so much as look at my horse wrong after this, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

Micah bares his teeth, red with blood, and briefly looks over their silent audience. Finding no out to his situation, he’s forced to look back at Arthur and submit.

“Crystal,” he spits, and Arthur’s hand tightens on the man’s collar. He savours the way Micah’s eyes widen as the fabric constricts around his throat, his knuckle pressing tight against Micah’s larynx.

“Just remember, Bell, I only need one hand to put a bullet between your eyes,” he growls, low and dangerous.

“What in the Lord’s name is going on out here?” The canvas flap of Dutch’s tent is thrown open and the man himself appears in the opening, Hosea coming to stand at his shoulder. Both men take in the sight of Arthur atop a bloodied Micah, the rest of the camp tightly but uneasily encircling them. “Arthur, get off him!” he orders sharply, to which Arthur immediately complies, dropping Micah back to the ground as he stands and steps away. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I need to trust you all to be civil to each other.”

“That seems to be all you trust me with these days, Dutch,” Arthur snarls suddenly, the complete fracturing of his composure sending ripples of shock through the crowd.

“Mr Morgan-!” Miss Grimshaw tries to protest, but Arthur’s attention doesn’t waver from Dutch. Angry, frustrated, slighted.

“If I’d known all your faith in me was invested in my arm, I would have tried harder to lose my goddamn leg instead!”

There seems to be a collective intake of breath as Dutch stares at Arthur in shock, until the younger man turns and strides furiously towards the darkened paddock beyond the firelight. He ignores Dutch’s attempts to call him back, his voice harsh with anger and a thin strain of worry that almost causes Arthur to hesitate. Thankfully, Hosea must step in to placate their leader, and in his mind Arthur can hear his voice clear as day, telling Dutch to leave him be.

He finds Fen with Kieren, already untacked and being brushed down for the night, which isn’t ideal for his plans to ride out and cool off for a while. The slighter man jerks back at Arthur’s sudden appearance, already wary from the shouting that had likely easily carried to the paddock..

“What are you doin’, boy?” Arthur barks.

“J-just getting Fen groomed for the night,” Kieran answers quickly, stepping away from the shire as Arthur comes up close and places his hand flat on the stallion’s neck. He sweeps his callused palm delicately over the warm fur, already feeling the hottest edge of his foul mood begin to temper. “He… he had a cut... on his chest,” Kieran informs him, still tentative. “But was only a small thing. Like he got nicked by a knife or-”

“-or a spur,” Arthur supplies, tone grim. Kieran nods mutely, confused but knowing better than to ask.

“I cleaned it up. He don’t seem bothered by it.”

Arthur turns around at that, regarding the younger man before patting his shoulder a little too roughly, grateful even if he was too pissed to properly express it. He turns back to the stallion, itching with the need to leave.

“Down,” he orders with a click of his tongue, and thankfully Fen obliges more readily than that morning, folding a foreleg under him as he kneels down so Arthur can swing his leg over the shire’s back. “H’up,” he grunts, and Fen rises again, turning and galloping out of the camp at Arthur’s command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Concrit are always welcome, and Happy Valentines Day! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for uploading this chapter late on top of my brief hiatus, but I hope it's worth the wait! A little reprieve from the drama of the previous chapter, until things inevitably go wrong again!

Arthur still isn’t back by the time the gang has risen the next day.

Despite everyone’s best efforts, there’s no ignoring the sense of unease that permeates the camp that morning — it stilts hushed conversation and keeps people on edge with shifting glances and restless hands.

Dutch hasn’t emerged for breakfast, his tent flap remaining undisturbed and his gramophone, often the herald of a jovial mood following a job well done, is agonisingly silent. It adds to the tension thick around the campfire as furtive glances are cast between Dutch’s closed tent and Arthur’s vacant one.

The only consolation is that Micah is keeping his distance, sulking on the fringes of the camp and refusing to meet anyones’ eye long enough to get a good look at his face. It doesn’t matter — even from John’s place at the fire, the purple bruises blooming across the right side of his face, and the scab where his skin had split, are clear as day.

The man had been spitting mad following Arthur’s departure — staggering to his feet, muddy and humiliated, with blood oozing from his nose and smearing across his chin. He’d looked like a feral animal as he demanded Arthur be punished for his behaviour, and when Dutch had looked at Micah, long and considering, John had almost been the second man to sock Micah in the jaw that night. It was only Charles putting a heavy hand on his shoulder that had stopped him.

Nothing was addressed in the end, and it left John with a deep feeling of dissatisfaction. Dutch had waved his arm, as if to sweep all the nonsense away, and worked himself into an impromptu speech on family and brotherhood. It concluded fortuitously with the growing restlessness that crept its way through the captive audience, with even Micah looking uncharacteristically impatient in Dutch’s presence. He'd retreated into his tent shortly thereafter, and the whole mess left a bitter taste in John’s mouth.

The only show of leadership John witnessed was the moment Hosea stepped up into Micah’s face, and with a voice that was cool and unyielding, forbade him from leaving the camp. John had been silently relieved by that, and still is, especially as he watches Micah stalk the perimeter of the tents and wagons — he wouldn’t have put it past the jackal to chase Arthur down and shoot him in the back given half the chance.

“You think he’s ok?” Abigail asks as she appears at his side, sitting down with a bowl of oatmeal and pushing a second one into his hands. Confused by the offering, John looks from the dish to Abigail, and then to the empty space on her other side. He quickly spots Jack among the other camp women, sitting on their sleep rolls and chatting away over breakfast.

Despite having not eaten yet, John doesn’t feel hungry. He lets his eyes drift back towards the trees, but when Abigail nudges him with the point of her elbow, he takes a mouthful of soggy oats to placate her.

“He’s fine,” he assures her, and he doesn’t doubt the truth of it. “Don’t think a camp of O’Driscolls could have stopped him, the temper he was in.”

Lenny snorts from across the fire. “Won’t argue with you there, I thought for sure he was gonna kill Micah.”

“Now wouldn’t that have been a crying shame,” Hosea’s quips dryly from over John’s shoulder. Lenny grins and holds his beer up in toast to the sentiment.

“You doin’ alright there, Hosea?” John queries as he comes into view, squinting in the high morning sun.

“You know me, son, just trudging along,” he says, a wry smile to his lips. Then he hums, an innocuous, pondering sound. “Say, John...”

John makes an inquisitive noise in response and Hosea’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. His bright old eyes briefly look out to the trees, just as John’s had, before they’re fixed back on his.

“If Arthur isn’t back by this evening, could you have Charles track him down? I’m sure he’s fine but… well, it would put an old man’s mind at ease.”

“John was already planning on doin’ it himself,'' Abigail says before John can reply. He turns to her in surprise, wondering how she’d known, or if she was unknowingly volunteering him for a job he’d already set his mind on doing. Despite his best efforts to gauge the truth, Abigail merely smiles a wily little smile — it isn’t short of mischief, but it tells him nothing.

Hosea looks equally taken aback, but pleased nonetheless. He pats John’s shoulder in a way that feels distinctly _proud_ , and John ducks his head, just shy of scuffing his boot in the dirt.

“Thank you, John. I’m glad you two seem to be getting on better these days, all things considered.”

Abigail’s lips press against his shoulder, and he’s able to feel her grin even if he can’t see it.

John huffs out a raspy chuckle. “Even the man who would rather shit out a cactus than let go of a grudge can’t stay mad at me forever. Think almost bein’ eaten by them wolves really helped though.”

Lenny laughs loud, and Hosea chuckles along. “I think you might be right there,” he agrees. “I think you might be right.”

**\---**

An hour before the sun is due to set, John saddles up Old Boy. He catches sight of Hosea watching him from outside Dutch’s tent - still closed - and nods reassuringly to his father-figure before he mounts up. He can feel Hosea’s anxious gaze lingering on his back long after he’s out of sight.

In truth, John doesn’t know where Arthur could have gone, or how far he would have travelled with over twelve hours head start. Charles was by far the better tracker, yet as much as John liked the man and his quiet, confident skill, he wanted to be the one to find Arthur and bring him back home. So he starts by following Arthur’s path out of camp, a narrower, overgrown trail through the trees heading north.

As it turns out, Arthur didn’t go far at all, and John finds him within thirty minutes of following the road, spotting the hulking form of Arthur’s shire in the distance. The stallion is cantering through what was once a grazing field for cattle, if the old stone walls and the ruins of a homestead were any indication.

The grass is overgrown, but doesn’t seem to hinder Fen’s long strides as Arthur circles the field, completely bare back and riding without so much as a steadying hand in the shire’s mane. He must be completely immersed in whatever task he’s set his mind to, because he doesn’t seem to realise John is even there — stood upon the road, backlit by the gradually setting sun, and watching with rapt attention.

Arthur’s whole body moves with his mount, his hips rolling in a fluid motion and his legs fixed against the stallion’s sides. He digs in his knees and leans back against Fen’s momentum as the shire comes to a harsh stop, the man somehow maintaining his seat as the stallion rears up in a towering stance, legs drawing up and lashing out. Now folded forward but still firmly seated, John hears Arthur emit a guttural noise, a provoking ‘H’yah!” to spur Fen on again, and the mount lunges forward — two tons of muscle and bad attitude barrelling towards a section of the low brick wall still standing.

“Christ, don’t be a foo— _Arthur!”_

Fen clears the wall, but he lands heavy and hard on the other side and the impact enough to dislodge Arthur and send him flying several feet. He crumples to the dirt, almost disappearing completely in the tall grass and deep shadows cast by the trees lining the property.

John throws himself from Old Boy’s back and vaults the wall, running through the long grass which whips against his legs and tangles around his boots. He skids to a halt as Fen suddenly appears in front of him with a bellowing snort, lips pulled back to bare flat teeth like a row of gravestones. John hadn’t realised the stallion had circled back to his rider, but now he stands protectively between him and Arthur, aggrieved by his hasty approach.

“Hey Fen, you know me. c’mon you nasty—” he digs into his pocket, pulling out a sugar cube which he offers to the horse on a flattened palm. Nostrils flaring, Fen edges forward, nudging John’s hand away as if in displeasure, and John clicks his tongue. “Just take the damn thing you spoiled—” he thrusts his hand forward again, and almost begrudgingly Fen takes the cube, crunching on the sweet bribe as he finally allows John close to Arthur, who has by this point sat up with a pained groan.

* * *

Arthur is sure he has bruises upon bruises by now, but he’d been so sure he could keep his seat on the jump, only for his leg to slip upon landing and send him sprawling to the dirt. He can hear Fen’s heavy steps and his grumbling snorts, but it’s the distinctly raspy mutter that has Arthur prying open his eyes and pushing himself upright with an involuntary noise.

John drops down onto one knee in front of him, and in the last vestiges of light he can make out John scrutinising the state of his shirt — covered in dust and dirt and telling of his numerous falls over the course of the day.

“Dutch send you t’make sure I ain’t dead?” Arthur grunts, digging his heels into the dirt and letting his arm rest loosely across his knees. His back aches something awful.

“Hosea,” John corrects. “Didn’t want you pawning off another limb.”

Arthur snorts despite himself, and finally looks up when John holds a cigarette under his nose. He takes it with a gruff noise that could have been ‘thanks’, and lets John light it with a match struck against his boot. When his own smoke is lit, John drops down into the dirt next to Arthur, leaving a comfortable space between them.

Fen lingers nearby, head lifting as Old Boy finally ambles after his rider and joins the shire in grazing.

Blowing out a plume of smoke, Arthur lets his head hang. With John now beside him, it’s impossible to stop his mind drifting back to the situation at camp. Back to churning over the same thoughts which had been plenty worked over throughout the day already, and left him no more content for it. He wonders if they think he’s lost his mind, become a problem finally outweighing his worth, or if Dutch had made an attempt to smooth everything over in his absence.

Feeling like his thoughts are running an endless loop, a crackling, repetitive tune like Dutch’s gramophone playing for hours on end, Arthur glances over at John. In a stark contrast to Arthur’s anxious energy, John looks strangely still in a tranquil sort of way. After a stretch of silence in which John seems content to watch the darkness creep across the sky, the stars beginning to wink into existence before their very eyes, Arthur releases a long, gusty exhale.

“I fucked up,” he finds himself muttering. He doesn’t know why he says what he says, but a longing for that same peace John seems to possess has him blindly reaching out, desperate for a scrap of it.

John tries not to look surprised by the admission. Arthur can tell by the way he angles himself — turning towards him but not daring to turn too far or look at Arthur too directly, like he's afraid of crossing an invisible line Arthur has drawn in the dirt between them. Arthur takes the cigarette from his lips and lets his hand dangle between his knees, the smoke curling up from the faintly glowing tip. “Had one chance to prove I weren’t….” he hesitates, then shakes his head with a humourless huff. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, not really. The mercurial heat of his anger has cooled to something viscous and unpleasant, clinging to him like tar and reminding him of every poor decision he’s made that’s led him to sitting on his ass in the middle of a field, ashamed to show his face back at camp. “I fucked it up.”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette and wonders if John is just going to continue staring at him with that pensive look. It draws his eyebrows together and deepens the shadows already cast by his sharp features.

“Way I see it, y’ain’t fucked anythin’ up,” John says carefully, watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Cautious but daring, much in the way of a dog edging its way towards an unguarded plate. “Dutch fucked up.”

Arthur can feel his expression twist. The words offer unspoken validation, but in turn they give a voice to the whispers that drift in the darker corners of Arthur’s mind. It makes him uneasy, especially when the voice that hisses of betrayal and faith begins to sound too much like Dutch.

“Seriously, Arthur, I sure as hell ain’t the only one who thinks Dutch is crazy to believe Micah can bring half the shit you have to the table. You’ve given _everythin’_ to this gang, for _years_ , and to jus- jus’ drop you to look-out like that, as if no one knows what that _means!”_ he throws up a hand in frustration. “S’bullshit,” he grunts, chewing on the end of his smoke.

Suitably distracted from his own thoughts, Arthur stares at John. He’s no stranger to John’s complaints — the man could find fault with anything in the right mood — but it isn’t often he gets himself wound up over something that doesn’t directly concern him. With a little huff, John seems to finally acknowledge the long silence between them. He looks at Arthur, and the way his brow pinches warily under the scrutiny has a bemused smile twitching at the corners of Arthur’s lips.

“Why do you sound more upset about this than I am?” he challenges, and John baulks.

“S’cause you’re stupid,” he snipes, shoulders hunching defensively, and Arthur can’t help the bark of laughter that erupts from him. It’s a spark of pleasure and levity that feels _good_ , and he wishes he could cling to it. But like a fire without purchase, it dissipates as quickly as it had come, and Arthur’s left shaking his head, his chuckle tapering into a heavy sigh.

“I might just be,” he agrees, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. John doesn’t comment that it was barely half smoked, but he can feel the disapproval. “Stupid t’think I’d be any use like thi— _ow_. What the hell Marston?” He snaps as John thumps him on the arm with a scowl.

“Christ, Arthur, now you’re really bein’ stupid,” he bites, taking another drag of his cigarette. He makes a noise of complaint when Arthur plucks it from his lips and puts it between his own, nose wrinkling as he mouths the chewed end and casts John a judgemental look. Surprisingly, John doesn’t take the bait. If they got into a scuffle, Arthur would still likely win, even if John had the literal and figurative upperhand, but poor odds had never stopped John before.

Instead, John fixes him with a steely look. “People like Micah, Bill… they’ll be puttin’ you down enough without you helpin’ ‘em.”

“Them’s pretty words, but bein’ all stubborn and idealistic is your tack, not mine.”

John smirks at that, a small, pointed thing. “Then why’re you out here fallin’ off your horse instead of doin’ dishes or darnin’ socks?” he challenges. “Only difference between you an’ me that I can see is that you can get ahead of your mouth; don’t say a word ‘bout what you're up to until you’ve gone and done it.”

Arthur looks away, puffing thoughtfully on the cigarette.

“Maybe there’s more than rocks in that head of yours after all, Marston,” and even Arthur knows his voice is too fond by the way the man’s sharp smile broadens, pleased with his approval in a way that makes Arthur wonder how he merited such deference still. John isn’t a boy anymore, and Arthur no longer the unbroken figurehead he may have once been in the eyes of a child who didn’t know any better.

“How about a drink?” John suggests as he gets to his feet, dusting off the seat of his pants as he offers Arthur a hand.

“I think you should stop while you’re ahead or you’ll use up all them good ideas,” Arthur drawls, but it’s teasing, and he takes John’s offered hand and allows the man to haul him to his feet. Picking up his hat which had fallen nearby, he clicks for Fen to bow.

John snorts good-naturedly and mounts Old Boy alongside him, nudging his gelding in the direction of camp as Arthur falls into step at his side.

**\---**

It’s not too late when they sidle back into camp, so there’s people milling around the fire and a subdued poker game taking place in the far corner when they pull up to the hitching posts. Swinging himself from Fen’s back, Arthur gives the stallion’s face a fond stroke.

“So, your tent? For drinks?” he asks, not looking at John as he does so.

He hears John stop, likely taken by surprise.

“Uh, yeah— yeah sure!” John agrees, “I’ll grab the booze,” he offers, and Arthur is grateful for that. He hasn’t dared risk a glimpse towards Dutch’s tent, and has no interest in doing so. He can’t predict if his temper will flare up again or he'll tuck his tail between his legs and grovel, and he doesn’t like the uncertainty of it.

Instead, Arthur lets himself into John’s tent, keeping his eyes downcast as does so. He can feel their stares, and it gives weight to his shame — slinking back into camp without a word, bearing bruises from a fight he’d started, and all without even having the decency to look anyone in the eye.

Letting the canvas flap fall closed behind him, he rests his hat on an upturned box and invites himself to John’s cot. Sitting on the end of the bed, he lets himself fall back with a bitten groan as his sore muscles stretch out and relax, aching from the abuse and exertion he’d put himself through over the last couple days.

He’s almost dozed off when the tent flap opens, but where he expects to see John he instead finds Hosea, peering down at him with an amused glint to his eye.

“Good to see you back in one piece.”

Arthur huffs lightly, making it up onto his elbow before Hosea waves his hand. “Don’t get up on my account, you look exhausted. I just wanted to check on you.”

Arthur makes a throaty noise, a light-hearted scoff. “I ain’t no kid no more, Hosea, I can get home without you sendin’ Marston after me.” “I know, I know; forgive an old man his penchant to worry.”

The words soften Arthur some.

“Sorry, didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, and Hosea just smiles in that understanding way of his.

“I know, son... You’ll need to talk to Dutch eventually. I can’t have the both of you sulking about the place,” he warns lightly, and Arthur blows out an unenthused breath, slumping down onto the bed again

“I know, I will. Tomorrow,” he promises when Hosea hovers expectantly. Satisfied, the man nods.

“Good. Try not to drink too much. I don’t think we can handle John half-shot on top of everything else.” And that coaxes a chuckle from Arthur.

“Don’t worry, ol’ timer, we’ll keep it tame.”

The older man laughs, and Arthur hears a fond “Oh, I’m sure you will,” as he leaves, and not a moment later John’s head is poking into the tent, looking cautious.

“Everythin’ ok?”

Arthur raises a brow at him from his place on the cot and snorts. “You gonna stand there with your ass hangin’ out the tent or you gonna come in, Marston?”

“Alright, christ,” the man mutters, but not without a twitch of a smirk as he shoulders his way past the canvas flap with a selection of bottles — a few beers and half a bottle of whisky. Arthur raises a brow at that as John squats and rocks back onto his ass, back resting against the cot. “Pinched it from the Rev,” he offers with a devious grin, and Arthur puffs out an amused noise. It’s like they were boys again.

“Well, what’re you waitin’ for? Pass me a beer.”

With a roll of his eyes that Arthur chooses to ignore, John shuffles over to the crate he used as a make-shift table and hooks the bottle cap just on the edge. With a smack of his palm, the cap drops to the grass and he offers Arthur the opened bottle.

“Cheers, Marston,” he grunts, accepting the drink and waiting until John has opened his own to clink the bottles together.

Propping himself back up onto his elbow, he takes a long deep drink.

**\---**

“‘Y’know, way we live? Didn’t think I was long for this life, an’ reckon that ain’t ‘mproved none,” Arthur hums, staring up at the roof of the tent. The timid flicker of the lantern light makes the shadows twitch and shudder.

He doesn’t know how late it is, but the noise in camp had diminished quickly in the last hour, the end of Javier’s gentle strumming leaving the camp almost silent.

It’s quiet for a long moment, so Arthur doesn’t expect John to break the lull when he does, his voice low and husky with drink — perhaps conscious of the hour.

“It made you think about gettin’ out? Doin’ somethin’ else with your life?”

Arthur snorts, unable to help himself. He’s not _drunk_ , but well and pleasantly buzzed now they’d made it onto the whiskey, passing it amiably back and forth between them. John has since turned around, leaning back on his hands on his boar pelt rug and facing Arthur who remained stretched out on the cot, legs still dangling off the end.

“Pshh, naw. What would I do? One-armed rancher’s ‘bout as much use as a one-armed outlaw. And I ain’t got much in the way of prospects beyond that,” he scoffs.

John hums thoughtfully, the sound throaty and rough. “I’d think the same if it were anyone but you,” he supplies, which is enough to make Arthur turn his head and squint at him, his brows furrowed.

“What y’mean by that?”

John shrugs a lazy shoulder, tipping his head back as he brings the whisky bottle to his lips, throat flexing as he pulls the amber liquid down his throat. Arthur blinks.

“Save me some o’ tha’,” he grunts, his inebriation sanding the sharper edges of his demand.

Smacking his lips, John hands the bottle over, but Arthur doesn’t drink it. He fixes John with a critical stare until the younger smirks, and Arthur realises he’s being teased. He growls.

“Yer an ass, Marston,” he mutters, and John barks out a messy laugh.

“Don’ be such a moody bastard, I’ll tell ya,” he scoffs. “Yer not like most men, Arthur Morgan. Williamson, Bell, hell, even Javier, I don’t think any of ‘em woulda coped with all this as well as you have.” He pauses and gives his chest a light thump to dislodge a belch, followed by what can only be described as a giggle. Running his hand through his hair, he sweeps back the greasy strands which have fallen across his face. “Yo- you find a way to get things done, no matter what no one tells ya. If you want my opinion…” he pauses, and it takes Arthur a moment to realise he’s waiting for Arthur to confirm he does, indeed, want John’s opinion.

He tries to make his grunt of acknowledgement sound as begrudging as possible, but it satisfies John nonetheless as his smirk widens.

“My opinion is, you’ve always found ways to get shit done, an’ you’ve always managed it without a lick o’ sense this whole time, so what’s one arm?” John’s grinning, but there’s something honest in what he’s saying, like he believes every word despite the levity provided by the alcohol. Arthur shakes his head, but the corners of his lips are twitching even as he takes a burning mouthful of whiskey and licks away the drops that cling to his lower lip.

“I don’t believe that anymore than you do,” he challenges without any heat, and to his surprise John merely shrugs his shoulder carelessly.

“Don’t ‘ave to believe it. Y’always found a way, and I figure y’always will, that’s what I believe and y’ain’t proved me wrong yet,” he crows, as if he’s somehow gotten one over on Arthur with this fact.

Arthur shakes his head, bemused by the conversation but somewhat endeared despite himself.

“Yer an idiot, Marston,” he rumbles, more for the sake of returning to safer ground than any real hostility, and the man just offers him a smug little grin in return.

After several long minutes of pondering, in which he’s rolled his head back to face the roof of the tent, John breaks the peaceful quiet once again.

“Hey, Arthur?”

Arthur hums.

“Don’t...don’t hit me or nothin’-” that gets Arthur’s attention, -”but could I see it? Yer arm?”

Arthur doesn’t respond, and the ensuing silence becomes taut. John begins to shift uncomfortably.

“S-sorry, didn’t mean ta-”

“Why do you want to see it?” Arthur asks, suddenly feeling a lot more sober. He can hear a soft clinking, and he turns his head to see John tapping his nail against an empty beer bottle, purposefully not looking at him.

“I dunno...weren’t able to hide my face when it was all messed up-”

“Still messed up,” Arthur mutters, meaner than he intends. John sucks in a breath, scowling, but he doesn’t take the obvious bait for a fight like Arthur expects. It’s not like they’d never had such delicate, personal discussions before, they’d been close once, after all — brothers in all but blood. But it had been many many years, with a lot of hurt in between.

John scratches his scarred cheek, and Arthur would have almost thought it was an unconscious action if the younger didn’t also turn his injured side away from him, and he feels like a real bastard for that.

“Just curious, I guess,” John mumbles, and Arthur releases a long sigh as he sits up. He’s worked open the first three buttons of his shirt before John notices. When he does, he jerks upright, his back ramrod straight.

“What’re you—” “You wanted to see, Marston, don’t make me change my mind,” he growls lightly, and John presses his lips tight together, nail once again tapping a discordant rhythm against the beer bottle as they keep their gazes averted from one another. When Arthur has unbuttoned his shirt down to his stomach, he tugs the material off his left shoulder, taking the suspender strap with it. It’s far more exposing than Arthur expects when his stump is finally on display. John doesn’t avert his eyes as he’d seen others do — instead, he stares. Perhaps it’s like being the bystander of a macabre scene — an animal bleeding out in the grass, a man being struck by a train — or like witnessing some godless, disfeatured creation.

He can hardly blame him for it, not when Arthur looks at himself the same way whenever he happens to catch his reflection.

He keeps his head turned towards the lantern, but can see John’s eyes following the curve of his shoulder and over his bicep, lingering where his arm suddenly stops. It tapers ever so slightly from the compression of the bandages, and the original wounds have finally healed completely, but John’s eyebrows draw together and his lip purses despite this.

“You fell on it,” he accuses, and the sudden shift from chastened to chastising is almost disconcerting. “S’bruised, an’ it’s been bleeding,” John informs him, since Arthur can’t see the end of his stump without a mirror. But he needn’t have — Arthur knows exactly when it had happened, and that he must have done some damage from the amount of time he’d spent writhing on the ground almost blind with agony.

He makes a noise of surprise when John turns onto his knees and shuffles forward, taking the whiskey bottle Arthur had set aside and grabbing a shirt from his clothing chest, which he promptly soaks in the remaining alcohol.

“That better be clean.”

“It is,” John shoots back, and Arthur’s nostrils flare with his exhale as John presses the fabric to his skin. The sting, thankfully, is only minor as John wipes away the dried blood, but it had been a while since anyone had cleaned or even touched his arm, and it takes all of Arthur’s composure not to jerk away. He sits stiffly as John dabs at the grazes, his other hand bracing the underside of Arthur’s arm without thought. His touch is light but certain, with no glimpse of discomfort or disgust that Arthur can see.

“Do you remember how it….” John trails off, throwing the dirtied shirt into the corner as he sits back on his heels. Arthur looks towards the remains of his arm, rolling his shoulder and flexing his bicep almost experimentally under John’s curious gaze. It aches when his muscles contract.

“Bear trap, I think,” he mumbles. “Think it must have been under the ridge where I fell. An old one.”

John grimaces. “Well, if you can survive that… reckon I ain’t the only lucky one,” he mutters with the slightest smile. Arthur awards his efforts of morbid humour with a small smirk as he tugs his shirt back on, but doesn’t bother to rebutton it or grasp fruitlessly for his suspender strap — he would only be undressing when he got to his own tent anyway.

“Well, Marston, it’s been alright,” he huffs, getting to his feet with only the slightest wobble as the alcohol rushes to his head. He manages an easier grin as John snorts in amusement, his hand hovering over Arthur’s hip in case he has to steady him.

“I’m glad my company was bearable at best,” he scoffs, and Arthur’s chuckle is a low rumble as he draws back the canvas.

“G’night John.”

“Night, Arthur.”

The flap falls back into place as Arthur ambles towards his tent, oblivious to the figure leaning against the shadowed trunk of the towering oak tree. Dropping face first onto his cot, Arthur sighs into his worn-out pillow and slips quickly into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Concrit are always welcome <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry there was no upadte last week without a word! (And this one is posted late, no less). Last week was unfortunately just a mess of mental health and then some fandom related nonsense and then had a couple of _very_ busy days, and next thing I know it's Sunday again. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

The next morning Arthur wakes with a jolt, knocking his elbow against the munitions wagon with a gasp that quickly turns pained. Rolling onto his side with a groan, his eyes screwed up tight against the late morning sun, he waits for his heart to stop hammering so fiercely against his ribs, and for his elbow to ache a little less.

His mouth tastes vile, and the space behind his eyes throbs from last night’s drinking which had seemingly toed the line of ‘too much’. He must be out of practice if a few beers and some whisky had roughed him up this badly. Yet despite his morning aches and pains, it doesn’t fully distract from the sweat he wipes from his forehead, or the shadows of an indistinct nightmare fading faster than he can recall it.

Sitting up with a grumble, he wipes the crust from his eyes with the back of his hand and plants his feet on the ground — still in his boots, no less. Letting his head hang, Arthur draws in several deep, regulating breaths. Nightmares are certainly nothing new — when you’ve killed and suffered and struggled and lost as much as they have, in ways both sudden and sanguineous, they’re almost as ever present as the guns at their hips. But his sleep has been particularly disturbed since his accident, and Arthur often wonders if he can even recall the feeling of a good night’s sleep anymore.

The camp is already humming with activity outside his tent, and the smell of a bland but warm breakfast rivals that of woodsmoke and horses. Tilting his head to stretch the kinks from his neck, he goes about shucking his dirty clothes and dressing in fresh ones. His trousers often serve him for days at a time, but the smell of fire and gunsmoke that clings to them is pungent, and he’s sure there’s still a generous spray of dried blood stiffening the fabric beneath the sweat and layers of dirt from riding for hours on end. He stops at his shaving station only long enough to wash his face in the water bucket before venturing out into the camp, guided by habit towards the coffee pot where he can see Tilly and Javier talking quietly by the fire.

He rubs the remnants of sleep from his eyes as he goes, and crosses paths with Sadie before he can reach the campfire. _Collides_ with Sadie is perhaps more accurate, almost knocking her clean off her feet and sending water from the bucket she’s carrying sloshing over their boots. He jerks back, but instinctively reaches out as she rights herself, his hand hovering inches off her shoulder.

“Shi- Missus Adler, ‘m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he apologises, and Sadie lets out a coarse bark of a laugh.

“You’d already have a gun against your gullet if I’d thought any different. Good to see you so keen to get back to the chores after your little sabbatical,” she drawls, and rolls her eyes when Arthur frowns and looks away. She gives his shoulder a light shove. “I was jokin’, Arthur. You was gone a day, and Lord knows you do more work ‘round here than half these idiots… but if y’are keen.” With a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips, she presses the handle of the water bucket into Arthur’s hand. He takes it without question, trying not to look too taken aback when Sadie gives him a little wave and heads towards the cook’s campfire.

With a bemused huff, Arthur takes the bucket to Pearson’s wagon and dumps the water into the barrel without issue. He grunts disinterestedly when Bill guffaws about Arthur knocking women off their feet as he passes him, and finally joins Tilly, Javier, and Sadie at the fire.

“Thanks Arthur,” Sadie welcomes him, pressing a hot cup of coffee into his hand. He takes a grateful sip, eager to dispel the lingering ache from last night’s drinking, and makes a surprised noise when he realises it’s both very hot and very fresh.

“I put on a new pot when I saw you stirrin’. Looked like you needed it,” Tilly enlightens him with an amused lilt to her words, and he flashes her a grateful smile over the rim.

“Mighty kind of you, Miss Tilly.”

“It’s good to see you back, brother,” Javier says with a gesture with his own cup. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon, ‘least not with John lookin’, eh?”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “He’s got a lot going for him, but trackin’ ain’t one. Lucky I made it easy for him,” he agrees. He doesn’t miss the look that Tilly and Sadie exchange, just shy of rolling their eyes, and he figures it’s down to the women not ribbing each other quite like the menfolk did.

“I gotta say, Arthur, the way you took down Micah the other day — some people, they had their doubts, but I think you put those to rest.”

Arthur tilts his head a fraction, trying not to frown at Javier. He can feel the awkward prickle of attention on him again, even though nothing has changed from one moment to the next that Arthur can tell.

“Doubts about what?” He tries to keep his question nonchalant, as if he doesn’t already suspect the answer.

Javier doesn’t respond right away, his dark eyes flicking over their present company.

“About you, my friend,” he says slowly, like he’s working out the best way to articulate himself. “Losing an arm is… it’s a big change, no one could say if you’d still be able to hold your own, yeah?” Javier grimaces as Sadie and Tilly stare at him with varying expressions of dismay and exasperation. “I am not.... explaining this well.”

Arthur snorts and drains his cup in a few scalding mouthfuls, tipping the dregs into the fire.

“Don’t worry about it, Javier. Still a heapin’ pile o’ shit of a situation no matter how you phrase it,” he mutters, then clears his throat. “Was, uh…. was everything alright yesterday?”

Relieved to move on, Javier waves his hand. “A little tense, but everyone’s been on edge since Valentine. As soon as you and Dutch ar-”

“I am sick and _tired_ of sweltering in this tent while you _brood_ , Dutch Van Der Linde,” a sharp irish accent cuts through the camp. The canvas flap of Dutch’s tent is suddenly swept back, revealing the flushed, irritable face of Molly O’Shea.

“I’m not keeping you prisoner in here, _my dear_ ,” the man responds, too self-restrained to grind out the words, but it’s a near thing. Molly scoffs, and Arthur thinks she must be truly fed up to make such a sound. As she fixes the flap in place, they’re able to see Dutch standing by the bed, well groomed and arms crossed as he watches his woman with a stony expression.

With an irritated sweep of his arm, Dutch exits out the back of the tent, leaving Molly to fuss about the heat as he stalks towards the shore to stare out across the water, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

Arthur rolls his eyes when he catches sight of Micah skirting along the shore, edging his way to Dutch’s side — no doubt to offer their leader’s boots a spit shine if nothing else. A glance towards the dominoes table has him meeting Hosea’s expectant gaze over the top of the man’s newspaper. Arthur sighs and pours himself another coffee.

\---

It’s just gone noon when Arthur figures he can’t put it off much longer. He watches from his cot as Hosea and Dutch sit and converse at the table, Hosea’s newspaper folded at his elbow.

With a sigh he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way over, nodding his head to both men and squinting against the sun. He hadn’t seen his hat all morning.

“Hosea. Dutch.”

“Arthur, my boy,” Hosea returns with a smile. “Arthur,” Dutch returns evenly. It’s distinctly more professional than familial, and it stings. Arthur clears his throat, averting his eyes only to notice John finally emerging from his tent with Arthur’s hat in hand. The younger man spots them gathered at the table and makes his way over, smothering a yawn with one hand as he drops the hat onto Arthur’s head with the other.

“Nice of you to join us, son,” Dutch welcomes him, sitting back in his chair with an expression Arthur can’t parse. He’d never been approving of the days John slept so late — often after nights of heavy drinking, and Arthur can’t say he approved any more than Dutch did — but there’s a different sort of tension deepening the lines around the older man’s eyes.

John looks between the three men, and Arthur can see the dots slowly connecting.

“Am I interruptin’ somethin’?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Kinda.” John’s expression scrunching up as the three men speak over each other, but they don’t get a chance to do more than exchange pointed glances.

“Hey Dutch, we got a problem,” Lenny calls.

“Not a problem,” another voice supplies, nasally and fallacious. The apprehension it sends rushing through Arthur like an arctic current steals the breath from his lungs, and he slowly turns his head to see Milton and Ross stepping into camp — _their camp_ — at the point of Lenny’s rifle. Neither of the agents seem perturbed by the weapon aimed at them, nor the way the gang members begin to draw closer, encircling them like wolves. “Just visitors. A solution.”

Hosea stands up from his seat, and Dutch doesn’t yet deign to look at the men, his expression a veneer of stoicism.

“Good day, fine people. Mr. Van der Linde. Mr. Matthews, I presume? And…”

Milton stops, and Arthur stares back — turns to face the agent square on and revel darkly in the genuine surprise that makes the man falter.

“Mr. Morgan. It seems you have befallen some… misfortune, since our last meeting.”

“Thought so myself ‘til you showed up. Suddenly, losing an’ arm don’t seem so bad,” he drawls, though the words are tight. Nothing about this situation favours them — they’re rabbits penned into their warren with two weasels at the door, and the tension is rife.

Milton’s head bobs minutely, genial and indifferent to Arthur’s barb. “Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency. Agent Ross,” he offers instead to the camp at large.

“And to what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Moron?” Dutch asks, still turned away, his tone beleaguered, and it ignites sparks like flint against steel.

It descends into a back and forth — a lexical battle of creeds and ideals and a siege on the state of civilisation, if it could be called that. From where Arthur stands, they are all murderers, thieves and vagabonds, and the noose dangled before them all. Yet the urbane arcadia Milton spearheads doesn’t seem any less savage; built on the backs of the very atrocities they swore to eradicate. Brutality packaged into something more palatable. They were the figures of tamed beasts, protectors and saviours of their civilised world, lying to their flock about the thirst for power and violence that in some way drove them all.

“I don’t wanna kill all these folk, Dutch — just you.”

It all comes down to blood and retribution.

The exchange, and the mocking chuckles from the gang, come to an abrupt stop. The air thickens with more than just southern heat as Milton and Dutch stare each other down in a silent battle of wills.

“In that case…”

Arthur’s eyes flick to Dutch, the man raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, sidling a few easy steps towards Milton.

“It would be my honour to join you. Excuse me, friends, I have an appointment to keep with—”

Metal drags against leather as guns are drawn from their holsters, and the clicks of several hammers being pulled silences any further discussion. The tension spikes, as volatile and quick to catch as gunpowder, and it feels like they’re on a precipice.

His own pistol in hand, Arthur stares Milton down over Dutch’s shoulder, waiting.

“I think your new friend should leave now, Dutch,” Miss Grimshaw suggests, though the way she cradles her favoured shotgun implies it’s nothing less than an order.

“You’re making a big mistake, all of you,” Milton declares.

“Of course,” Dutch breathes, mocking and contemptuous. “But you see, Mr. Milton, we have got something, something to live and die for.” “Then you will die for it, all of you,” the man snarls back, expression twisting into something cold. “When I return it will be with fifty men. So run away from here, you fools. _Run_!”

“C’mon!” Lenny barks, reaching for Milton’s arm only for the man to shake him off.

“Keep your hands off me, _boy.”_

Lenny’s grip on his rifle tightens, but he strides after the agents as they push out of the circle and back towards the trees. The weight of their presence unfortunately doesn’t follow.

“What now?” Arthur rumbles.

“We get outta here, and quick.” Dutch mutters back. “Any ideas?”

Arthur reholsters his pistol, nodding slow as a solution dawns on him.

“Yeah… Big ol’ house hidden in the swamps outside St Denis. Shady Belle. Lenny and I had a dispute with the previous occupier. They’ll find us eventually, but it should be safe for a while, if we’re careful.”

Dutch nods. “Good. John, take Lenn-” “Arthur,” John corrects.

Dutch stops, expression carefully neutral, but Arthur can tell he’s displeased. Arthur himself is surprised, frowning at John from Dutch’s other side.

“Might be a good call, Dutch.” They all turn to Hosea who stands with his arms folded across his chest, his face drawn and sombre. “We need to pack up and get out of here quick. These two have always been faster at clearing out lowlives than packing up wagons, even as boys with both arms and more sense.”

Arthur grunts, wondering if he should be offended by how his deficiency is being used to deliver back-handed compliments, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’d live with it if it meant he actually got trusted to do more than pack a godforsaken wagon.

Slowly, Dutch nods. “Alright, John, Arthur, make sure that place is ready by the time we get there. Everyone’s counting on you.”

With shared nods, Arthur and John head for their horses.

\---

“I hope you know you’ve probably put us both in the shit with that little show of yours, Marston,” Arthur calls over the rumble of hooves, his face turned away from the cloud of red dust kicked up off the road. “He don’t like being talked back to like that.”

“You tellin’ me you see sense in leavin’ you at camp and takin’ Lenny? We both know the kid’s more help with the packin’ than you’ve ever been,” John yells back.

Arthur scoffs. “Look who’s talkin’, you could sleep through the whole place bein’ packed up around you!”

John shoots him a grin, not refuting the claim.

“So, what do you think about all this?” Arthur asks, bringing Fen closer alongside Old-Boy as they run. Their boots are close to brushing, but they ride confidently and comfortably alongside each other, years of practice beneath their belts.

“I don’t even know what to think no more,” John confesses. “We made too much noise, _again_ , only this time we drew them Pinkertons right to us! I mean, how many people have we killed these last few weeks?”

Arthur sighs — he truthfully had no real idea. His climbing bodycount had dropped rather significantly the last couple months, but the attack on Braithwaite Manor alone was enough for him to admit: “Far too many.”

“Dutch and Hosea, they’re playing games. Gettin’ involved with those families?” John snorts, and a quick glimpse of his lips and the sardonic twist to them tells Arthur it’s derisive.

“They thought there was gold at the en-”

“Isn’t there always,” John cuts him off, and Arthur thinks this might be the man’s new irritating habit. He’d like to see him try it with Abigail and live to see the next morning.

“Look, Marston, I don’t know what to tell you.” He blows out a breath. “Not everything goes to plan, you and I both know that.”

John’s stews in silence. Arthur knows the words don’t provide any reassurance, doesn’t rightly know if they were meant to, but it was a fact of life they lived their lives by — sometimes, things just went wrong.

“Right now, every plan just gets us into more trouble. It weren’t that way before. Something’s changed; Dutch has changed.”

Arthur sighs as they turn onto a narrow forgotten road framed by overgrown thicket, the desolate grandeur of Shady Belle looming up before them.

“A lot of things have changed,” he answers grimly, and pulls his pistol from its holster as a voice calls out at the sight of them.

It’s John who downs the first of the few raiders who remained at Shady Belle.

* * *

Arthur is standing on the porch of the old manor house when the wagons roll in. As soon as Miss Grimshaw disembarks the caravan and begins to herald orders, Arthur, well practiced and even better trained, wades into the ensuing madness, letting the routine of manual labour quiet his mind.

Although the sun still sits high in the sky, it’s already getting close to evening, so Arthur prioritises the chuck wagon, helping to unload Pearson’s table and his immediate necessities. At the very least he would make sure everyone got a hot meal tonight.

He’s just finished lighting the new fire for the stew pot when Hosea places a hand on his shoulder. Looking up at the older outlaw, Hosea nods to the manor’s first floor balcony where Dutch leans against the balustrade, overlooking the progress of their new camp coming together. Arthur heaves out a sigh.

“The sooner you get it over with, the better,” Hosea encourages, giving Arthur’s shoulder a light push to send him begrudgingly into the house.

The aged wood creaks under his boots as he ascends the stairs to stop just outside the worn double doors of the master bedroom. Rubbing his palm over his mouth, Arthur tries to settle the unease knotting in his stomach before he raps on the door.

“C’mon in, Arthur.”

“Dutch,” he says upon entering, closing the door with a gentle click of the latch behind him. Dutch has left the balcony in favour of the bedroom, the door muting the sounds of activity outside. Deep golden light floods in through the glass-panelled windows, turning the worn old drapes a vibrant scarlet. Arthur thinks the room must have been opulent once upon a time.

“Movin’ up in the world,” Arthur muses. “Four walls and a bed t’boot.” Dutch chuckles and folds himself into the armchair by the window, gesturing with his pipe towards the bed. “Take a seat, son.” He strikes a match, and after a thick silence — disturbed only by Dutch’s quiet puffing — the tobacco finally takes and the man exhales a long, smokey breath.

“I think we’re overdue a talk,” Dutch starts. “I know you’re upset, about what happened—”

He could be referring to anything. His accident. The robbery. Micah kicking his horse. Arthur almost being left behind. The fight. Dutch’s doubt. Dutch’s _lies._

Arthur half throws up his arm in frustration.

“I ain’t upset, Dutch,” he objects. “Not really… just— I wish you’d told me I had t’prove myself again so I could have.”

“Arthur.” Dutch sits back with hands on his knees, looking dismayed. “My boy, you never need to _prove_ yourself to me...”

“Then what was that, Dutch? You said you wanted me back by your side, but when I was there you set me aside. I ain’t been look-out on a job like that since I was _nineteen._ ” He looks at Dutch helplessly, his bitter accusation pleading with his mentor and father-figure for an answer.

Dutch heaves a deep breath and brings his elbow to rest on the arm of the chair, the side of his fist pressing against his mouth in a contemplative gesture. For a long moment the man looks lost, and perhaps a little broken — like Arthur had felt ever since he’d woken up and found himself no longer whole.

“I ain’t been fair to you, son,” he admits. “And I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I suppose a part of me hoped—” he huffs out a dry, humourless sound. “A part of me _believed_ things would just… go back to normal. To how they’d always been.”

“Ain’t nothing changed,” Arthur insists, desperate to make the man understand that he wasn’t the vulnerable lamb he seemed to see. His voice rises with a new intensity. “I’d give my life for this gang, Dutch, an’ I’ll do everything in my power to keep them safe. That ain’t never gonna change. An’ I won’t let anyone set me aside or stop me from doin’ that, not even you.”

Dutch raises a placating hand, and Arthur realises he’s stood up from the bed, fist clenched at his side. But Dutch doesn’t look intimidated, instead he’s smiling, his eyes sympathetic. Arthur hates it.

“I hear you, Arthur, but we need to... manage our expectations, shall we say.”

“Manage our expectations,” Arthur echoes. The words ring hollow and taste sour in his mouth.

“I don’t doubt you, Arthur, but I need you to trust me, especially with the heat on us right now, what with Cornwall and his... Pinkerton hounds. Can’t you do that for me?”

Arthur lets the words wash over him, familiar, but less comforting than they’d ever been before.

“Sure, Dutch,” he answers, the response flat. Automatic.

Dutch smiles and stands. “That’s my boy,” he chuckles, clapping Arthur’s shoulder fondly. “Now, why don’t you head out and see what’s left to do. I’m sure Miss Grimshaw could always use an extra pair of—”

Dutch’s mouth snaps shut, his jaw clenching tight, and Arthur chuckles drily.

“Sure, Dutch,” he repeats, and leaves Dutch standing in the middle of the room without a backwards glance.

\---

Even with the sun slowly sinking behind the distant mangroves, stepping out of the house feels like being enveloped in a thick, humid embrace. They hadn’t moved too far south east, but now there was no more cool breeze rolling off Flat Iron Lake to alleviate the heat, only the stench of stagnant swamp water and dry earth.

The camp, under Miss Grimshaw’s meticulous direction, has already taken shape — the wagons neatly arranged, a new campfire taking to its kindling, and the lean-tos erected for everyone to bed down that evening.

Arthur casts his eye about, trying to find some forgotten task he could assist with, when Mary-Beth exits the house and bumps into his back with a startled _‘oh!’_

“Careful, now,” he tells her, turning to make sure the young woman is still standing. She brushes her hands over her skirt, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry Arthur. I couldn’t find you for an age and then suddenly you’re right where I ain’t looking!” She laughs.

Arthur chuckles. “No harm done, what did you need?”

“After those men left this morning, Javier took me into Rhodes to pick up some last minute supplies. I stopped by the post office and there was a letter for you — I’ve left it in your room.”

“My room?” He asks.

“Mhm.” She gestures for him to follow her back into the house. “Up the stairs, the last door on the left,” she directs him, and he tips his hat to her in thanks.

“Much 'preciated, Mary-Beth.”

“Not at all, Arthur. You take care now,” she bids him, taking her leave of the house again towards the clamour of Pearson calling for dinner.

Exhaling deeply through his nose, Arthur makes his way back upstairs, looking around the landing for the correct room. The door on the right has a sizable hole in the wall next to it, the splintered wood and cracked plaster creating a jagged window frame through which he can see John’s chest and belongings piled by the bed in the corner. Rounding the banister, he enters the far door on the left. He’s greeted with a smaller room with faded, flaking red walls — a light breeze blowing in through the broken window which looked onto a rear balcony. Although the room is filled with his belongings — a table, cabinet, and his chest lining all the available walls — it’s still far from cramped, and a novelty to have four walls to himself.

He drops down onto his cot pressed against the far wall with a sigh, staring at the high ceiling spotted with dark patches of mould and damp. He almost gives in to the temptation to sleep, to let this whole day be put to rest, but he forces himself back upright, swinging his feet to the floor.

It’s then he spots the letter lying on the table, the paper thick and a rich ivory in colour. Even without glimpsing the neat script, he knows who it’s from, and he hesitates reaching for it. Eventually, inevitably, he gives in, dirt from his fingers smudging the pristine page as he unfolds it to read the first few achingly familiar words.

_“Oh Arthur….”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and concrit are always welcome! <3


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